


Bloodlines

by Amaranthe (awildlokiappears)



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ALL the tags, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Gen, I'm a fandom nerd, Lots more characters to come, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Other, Welcome to my brainchild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awildlokiappears/pseuds/Amaranthe
Summary: The world has moved on from Sabriel, Lirael, and the near-return of Orannis, for both Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom. Life has truly begun to thrive again through both countries, despite the still lingering presence of necromancy and Free Magic...However, an old enemy has returned to the Old Kingdom, seeking those who he would destroy in order to achieve his greatest plan...Unmake the Charter.Forever.





	1. Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life and love (and critiques, I always welcome a chance to grow!).

_I'm home._ Tony took a deep, deep breath of the fresh, clean air just outside of the Wall. Out here, in Ancelstierre, it was early autumn, still hot and dry, with the long grasses shh-shhing over the low voices of the soldiers unloading the trucks fast. The winds blowing out of the Old Kingdom weren't usually too bad until the winter hit, but even a stray breeze, heavy with both Free and Charter magic, would shut down their trucks for hours. Tony had even helped at first; it was always all hands on deck when they came this far north, and finally, he no longer had a reason to return to the South.

The job he'd finished for the very last client of his father's old company was done at long last, and he'd turned over all the operations back to Obie, including all the finances; he wasn't terribly worried about his own, not when he had a thriving little shop back in Belisaere. He'd only come this far into Ancelstierre on his old man's dying wishes anyway; what fun was all the technology in the world, when he could replicate it, and do far more, with the Charter.

“Mr. Stark, may I see your paperwork...?” The young corporal looked a little awestruck; they went through the papers and his dual passports, and Tony bent his head a little to allow for his Charter mark to be verified. He gave Maria a grin and a wink, and she rolled her dark eyes, lips twitching a little.

“Good to see you, Tony.”

“Good to see you too, Maria...everything in order?”

“So far as I can see. Are you planning on returning to Ancelstierre?”

“Nope. I’m going home to Belisaere. You getting leave soon?”

“That’s the goal; we’d like to be home by the holidays...but, we’ll see. Are you heading up the Old North Road?”

“That’s the goal, why?” She grimaced and sighed.

“Just....be on your watch. There’s been reports of Dead about.” Tony’s eyes narrowed, and he took back his papers, stowing them safely in the waterproofed saddle bags.

“...You know the Abhorsen will be traveling...”

“I know. Still...there’s plenty of tales of people, the Abhorsen included, dying all too easily. Keep your guard up.” He nodded, bowing in respect to her position, and she gave him a similar gesture, turning it into one of welcome as she rose back up. Her soldiers read the signal for what it was; they set to unpacking the trucks with greater haste now, wary of the winds blowing out of the Old Kingdom.

Another truck roared up from behind them, but it went straight for the guard post, so Tony only paid enough attention to ensure that it wouldn’t hamper his way back home, and ignored the idiotic accusations and vile threats that were being leveled at a particularly unflappable man with the faint hint of a Charter mark and the air of someone who is thoroughly done with this shit. He sent them on their way in a series of heavy carriages and vanished into the post, and Tony gave Maria another wave, turning back to the horse.

He smiled as the boys finished up, and finished his own preparations, tightening his roan mare's belly strap with care and checking that everything was in place on her saddle, the bags all tied down tightly for fastest travel. On his back were his crossbow, and quiver of bolts, each of them blessed with a dozen fiery Charter marks if he encountered any Dead...at each hip sat a similarly blessed and forged short sword of his own work, and his armor alive with marks, the chainmail glowing even in the early afternoon light.

Across the wall, the warmth of September immediately gave way to a light, chilly snow, and he was grateful for the heavy doublet he'd packed months ago, complete with a hood and snow-mask, and her padded, full-body blanket. It wouldn't be an easy trip for Dottie, or him, but they had to make it home to Belisaere before the first heavy snow, and he'd already spent more money than most would have thought wise to get here as early as he had.

But...even with the long, rough journey over land ahead of them, the snow, the cold they could feel even now...he mounted with a surge of excitement, the same excitement he felt in Dottie too. They'd both been born and bred in the Old Kingdom; she'd been a tiny runt of a foal in Anstyr's Field, her and her weary mother the last horses after the massive faire, and his father had seen the way Tony had coaxed both filly and mare to the fence with carrots and a bit of sugar, soothing them and befriending them as easily as his mother had people...

Dottie had been his from that day on. Now, she was counting her years, but still just as strong and ready to start out on the trek, and Tony wondered if he might see a little filly again this coming summer. He rather hoped so; her many daughters were well sought after, and he wouldn't mind keeping the last...But, her dancing shook him out of his thoughts, and he soothed her with voice and touch; he didn't tolerate a bit in her mouth in the slightest.

Finally, the soldiers had turned to their posts, the trucks had roared away...and he was given the all clear from Maria, who‘d returned to her post at the top of the Wall. He cantered up to the gate, eying the heavy iron portcullis with a sense of pride, marking little areas of wear, where the Charter marks were fading, where his apprentices would need to make repairs...and at long last, it moved enough for him touch his heels to the mare's flanks, darting through at a lope. As it shut smoothly behind them, the first of winter's winds cut into his skin, and he drew up the mask, pulled on his gloves one at a time, and leaned low over Dottie's neck, letting her find her pace...

And with an Old Kingdom hunter, that was a very fast pace indeed; before long, she was in full motion, eating up the kilometers with deceptive ease, and Tony kept his eyes on their surroundings, trusting the mare's senses to keep them on the right track. She knew this road of old, knew where it lead, and she was just as eager to return home as he was...Tony took another breath, and smiled under his mask, feeling his heart sing as Charter's power surged up within him.

  
_I'm_ finally _home..._

* * *

_Far past the Seventh Gate...too far...too far gone...yet not far enough. It seeks, burning and bleeding shadows..._

  
_It seeks_ you _, Natalial._

  
Green eyes opened, yet another shade lighter than before, and Tasha shook the ice off her armor, wincing as the numbness turned to burning pins and needles throughout her arms and legs, and she glanced around her cardinal shield, relaxing as only her horse glanced up at her. A few deep stretches and a drink of gaspingly cold water, and she was revived enough to release the cardinal points, sheathing her sword as another ice-white strand of hair fell into her eyes.

  
Her hair was more white now than fiery red, an after effect of the many years she'd spent sending the dead back where they belonged. Not all Abhorsens came out of Death so pale; a good many, like her apprentice, Darciel, lost coloration in only their skin, their dark hair growing darker as they aged. Darcy, however, was in direct lineage to the famed Sabriel and Lirael, her father a royal advisor and one of past royal blood himself; Tasha was...a little different. She and Darcy were, in fact, half-sisters; their mother had been Abhorsen before them, though Tasha had been left to the traders her father traveled with at birth.

  
Tasha had never been meant to be Abhorsen; when her coloring had been so like her father's, Marael had chosen to seek another mate elsewhere, for _all_ Abhorsen children were born with dark hair and pale pale skin, with blue or brown eyes. But Nikolas had known, unlike his lover, that his daughter truly was something special; from a young age, her power in the Charter had been incredible, and when they'd fought a rogue necromancer, it had been Natasha who had plunged into Death, defeating him with nothing but her wits and a handful of throwing daggers at the tender age of eleven.

  
Bravery had had nothing to do with it, though; the traders who had raised her, if a bit rough and brusque, were kind men and women who loved her in their own ways, and she had already lost enough...It had been simple to throw her soul into Death, reckless and full of rage...a rage that some had whispered about. _Berserker_ , they had called her...like King Touchstone, like so many of the royal line, fierce, proud warriors...In any case, her power had been unearthed at last, and her right to bear the Abhorsen name was only cemented further.

  
Marael had been...well, annoyed was putting it mildly. Nikolas had taken his child back to her to be trained, properly, but...well, Marael had a husband then, and a tiny baby who was the perfect Abhorsen child. She had been quite blunt with her former flame, and it was Natasha...no, Natalial, who had proven her worth, there in the center of Abhorsen's garden. She passed every test set to her from then on, proved her power and strength...had even earned the passing approval of Yrael himself, formerly Mogget, the immortal servant of the Abhorsen.

  
And yet...

  
It wasn't enough.

  
Marael never said so much as a gentle word to her firstborn, though she showered Darcy with praise and love, gifts so lavish they made Tasha's throat squeeze closed, even now, even after all these years...And yet, not once had Darcy played the spoiled brat. It was almost infuriating at times, how even-keeled she was, but then...it had been Natasha, not Marael, who'd taught Darcy of Death, of the Gates, of the Bells...Marael had thought she had all the time in the world.

_Does the Walker choose the Path, or the Path, the Walker?_

  
Tasha smiled, faintly, at the remembered words, so oft quoted in both the Book of the Dead, and the worn old almanac in her saddle bags...and turned to her little sister, who was tending the fire with a book before her nose. The Book, to be precise; Darciel had her sword unsheathed at her side, and the faint crook of her head told Tasha that she was listening, despite being engrossed, and she limped over to her seat by the fire, taking comfort in the warmth within Darcy's larger shields.

  
"How was Death?" Her lips quirked in a smile at the vapid-sounding question; she did appreciate Darcy's humor even in her dark moods, and settled, stretching her bad leg with a faint groan and a pop of her knee. A murmur of Charter magic made her raise an eyebrow, but she just accepted it with another smile; Darcy always knew when that leg was acting up, and Natasha was more than willing to accept the healing these days.  
"Death was quiet, for a change. Thank you for allowing for this detour to trip."

  
"Psh, Cloven Crest isn't _that_ far off our path, sis, and considering how long this one lay broken back in the old days, it's never a bad thing to check it out, juuuust to be certain." Darcy had a very fair, and good, point about that; it was rare for a Charter Stone to be broken in these days, thank all the gods. Kerrigor had been laid into deep, deep slumber in Holehallow a century ago, and Natasha was never more grateful than the present to live in a time where the country's Charter Stones were largely whole...not shattered, across every tiny village and town, all the way into the enormous cistern beneath the Palace itself.

She shivered a little, remembering the excepts of the Great Stones being broken, written by Touchstone I. Death was an open door for every necromancer, this was true...but at a broken Stone, it was a gaping, ugly wound for Dead to escape. Thankfully, though, the warmth and familiar feel of the Cloven Crest Stone emanated all around their camp, and she sank back against the stone itself, feeling the Charter soothe not just her weary, injured mortal form...but the battered, broken soul underneath.

  
"...Still. I appreciate it." Dark eyes glanced up at her, full of love and sweetness, then returned to her book, and Natasha just smiled, focusing her attention on the horses' warm mash, and their own rabbit stew. No, she wasn't supposed to be the Abhorsen...and yet, sitting here, her apprentice and half-sister studying furiously, in the presence of the one thing worthy of that judgment...well, she rather felt that, frankly, their mother had been wrong. She was Abhorsen; Charter willing, she would remain so for a good long time yet. And if not...well, Darcy was strong enough now to take up that mantle, should Natasha have to pass it on.

  
_Does the Walker choose the Path, or the Path, the Walker?_

* * *

**_...Blond hair. Ancient, Ancelstierren armor. Frozen beneath a round shield, yet no sword...He is kin, yet he is forgotten. He is foreign to this land, yet he is of Clayr blood...Find him, little brother. Find the Fallen One._ **

  
_Crack._

  
The hooded hunter whirled silently, his soft boots hardly making a sound on the ice-covered snow, and blue eyes narrowed over a knitted balaclava, piercing and tracking the movements of the shadows about him. His bow had been cocked and drawn a half a second into that twirl, and he eyed a darker shadow than the rest, and advanced a half-step.

  
“Show yourselves.” The rough, raspy timbre of his own voice made him wince inwardly, but he didn’t show that weakness into the darkness; too often, it’d been used against him. And right now, he needed all his wits, and every weapon they could muster if he was to survive this forest. He hadn’t meant to track so far into the Northern lands, but there was no hope for it; all he could do now was make his way back to the south, and hope that he could get to Belisaere before the snows really started to fly.

  
Another movement scattered those thoughts, and he came forward another half-step...leaning back as a tall, battered youth, his silvery hair dirty from too many weeks unwashed, unfolded himself from a tiny shelter between two old trees, followed by a waif-like girl with long, tangled dark hair and huge dark eyes. Slowly, his bow lowered; both children were barely clothed for decent weather, let alone a Northern winter, and already he could see fingers turning purple with the cold, with nary a blanket or cloak between them, both of them shaking so hard they couldn’t even speak, let alone fight.

  
That and their pinched faces decided him. Clint settled arrow and bow back over his shoulders, and pulled out his sleeping roll and spare blankets, wrapping both kids in the warm woolens before dropping to a knee and scraping the snow off the sleeping earth. With all the speed and skill he possessed, soon he had a strong blaze going, and sitting both kids in front of it on an old log seemed to help both of them.

  
It was the matter of another hour before he had stew going, his tent put up, and a Charter Mark shield around the whole camp, and he was splitting a few small logs for the fire with his hatchet when the boy finally spoke up, his voice cracking with cold and age both.

  
“Th-thank you, sir...”

  
“...It’s no trouble, kids. Honestly. You both curl up in the tent tonight; it’s got a warming spell on it and we’ll make a semi-permanent camp here for a few days while I make up some stuff to help get all three of us to the next village.” Clint replied with a faint smile, coming over to sit on a piece of old stump he’d pried up when he was searching for tubers for the stew earlier. Speaking of...finally finished, he ladled out bowls to both kids first, heavily supplemented with his journey bread and a bit of dried beef, and got his own bowl as well.

  
To his surprise, the kids savored the meal; they soaked the bread for a bit (always a wise decision; he was certain he could nail boards with the hardtack), and took their time...Or...rather, took it easy on their clearly empty bellies, and his sympathies grew a little more. He knew that feeling all too well. He made sure they ate the rest of the stew, and got out a little more food for them, smiling when the girl stammered out a weak denial.

  
“Kiddo, you’re both starving; eat up, then sleep. I’ll keep watch over both of you, okay? I’ve been where you are, I know exactly how you both feel.” They both looked down, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gentle as he pulled down his mask to reveal the scar crossing his cheek. “My father gave me this when I was just a boy; for what? I have no idea, even to this day. I ran away, out into the snow...and it was a good man who saved me when I was your ages. It’s my turn to pay it forward, okay?”

  
They both nodded, looking shy, and he got them into the bedroll, suddenly realizing that a boy, and a girl, at their ages...and the boy must have seen his face, because a weak grin crossed his chapped lips.

  
“Please, sir, don’t worry, we’re twins. I‘m the older one.” A groan sounded in the tent, and the girl popped her head out, glaring in what was clearly an old argument.

  
“You are _12 minutes older_ , Pietro!” He grinned, hands on his hips, and stuck his tongue out at her.  
  
“I’m still _olllder_ , Wanda! C’mon, let’s let the nice man relax...” They both settled down as Clint bit his tongue on a bark of laughter, and settled back on his stump, pocket knife and a piece of fragrant rosewood in his hands, which was being turned into a elegant little hawk carving. It was...odd. Very odd. But like the vision that had been haunting him before the children had stirred, it felt as though he was setting the wheels right on the track again.

  
No, he had no idea how he was going to stretch his money to clothe and feed all three of them. No, he had no idea if they’d make it to the capital before winter truly hit. No, he wasn’t back home, deep in the heart of the glacier he‘d been born in, where all Clayr resided...but...he could do this. They could do this. The quiet voice that had always been a part of his heart rose up again, and he welcomed it with a pang of longing, the sound like the echo inside a glacier...

  
**_Have faith, little brother. Have faith._ **

* * *

The little boy let out a soft sigh as he slid into a proper deep sleep finally, and Bruce sat back, slowly, carefully, letting his mother in to wrap around the boy, keeping him safe and warm. The last few Charter marks fluttered from his fingertips to the boy's forehead, glowing golden and familiar before fading in the soft darkness. Twilight murmured outside the small thatch-roofed house, silent except for the crystalline sounds of ice and snow. Winter was starting to build now, the heavy, dark clouds from the northern lands of the Clayr rolling from the mountain tops to settle low over the Old Kingdom.

  
Winter wasn't his favorite time for a myriad of reasons, but he was deeply grateful for the quiet and the peace...and for the cold, for it kept the Dead at bay. He felt the familiar itch under his skin, and took his leave in the shadows, letting the family focus on their child while he slipped out of the village, wrapping his cloak around him. Not far from here, a Charter stone lay in two pieces, split by the violent death of a Charter mage...not, thankfully, a resident of this village.

  
More and more now, Charter mages took to the roads to learn more of both the history of their homelands, and to do a sort of 'tour' of the Stones, which always ended with the Great Stones beneath the palace. However...such tours were often dangerous, for necromancy and Free Magic still held a heavy hand over the Old Kingdom, and it only took a moment for it all to go wrong.

  
The wrongness grew as he made his way through heather and bracken, eyes grim behind the balaclava he wore, flashing a deep, dangerous green as he felt the yawning void that was Death. He could not traverse such waters...not in any way...but he knew who could. Carefully, he set up a beacon; part Charter magic, part phosphorus and chemical combustion, it would draw the one who could set the Dead to rest. But...the Abhorsen would have to deal with the Dead, and would have no time to hunt the necromancer responsible. This Stone had been broken almost two weeks prior...

  
Too many Dead had escaped already.

  
He could sense them, lurking in the darkness, shadows upon shadows...but they would not attack him. No...they couldn't. He dropped his cloak, dropped his long robes to leave himself only in his trousers, breath ghosting in the icy darkness...and felt a harsh smile with no humor burn across his lips, the first fiery words of Free Magic tumbling from them. He was one of the few things even a Greater Dead feared...for he was more than human. Dark green spread across his skin as his body grew and changed, the same green glowing out of his eyes...  
It was time to hunt.

  
The beast lifted his great head as the wind blew up; a giant’s powerful muscles quivered with excitement as he sniffed once, twice, three times...and let out an echoing howl that made every single creature, alive and dead, shrink down in sudden terror. He leapt down the hillside, and took off at an earth-shaking run. The necromancer was foolish, close to his handiwork, building a tiny army of Hands and Shadows...

  
They could no more hurt the beast than flies a bull; he tore through them, and through the necromancer, in quick order...and he howled again, though this time, the sound held...a sound. A distinct, echoing, sorrowful sound...and the Dead who heard it, who felt that deep, unbreakable call, were sent beyond the Ninth Gate, forever sealed to their final judgments.

  
Not only the Dead, either; birds fell from their roosts, little spirits extinguished in a single moment, small creatures still as the snow around them, an old doe fallen forever. Such was the price the beast paid...and as the man returned, gasping, aching, chilled to the bone, Bruce washed away the blood with a few shaking handfuls of snow, dragging himself back to the hill and wrapping up in the warmth of his cloak and robes as he began to lay a fire.

  
Grief shrouded his soul once more as he moved, and finally, Bruce settled on the rock farthest from the Stone, taking a little comfort in the distant sound of hoofbeats, pounding down the road. Help was arriving very soon, and the few Dead that had remained within the area of the Stone would be vanquished. He...well, he hated that the beast within had such a power, but he couldn't deny that it helped. He just...wished that it wouldn't cost so very much.

  
One thing he would do, however, before the Abhorsen arrived, was to find the frozen body of the girl whose life had been so brutally cast out. He searched the snow around the Stone, pushing back the nausea and despair that radiated from it, and found her, throat slit, dark eyes faded and blued from the icy cold...he closed them, with a physician’s touch, and murmured the soft words of the Charter, a balm for his throat after the burning tang of Free Magic, and set the spell of conflagration with a single gesture.

  
It burned swiftly, breaking the last bonds the soul might have had with the body, and as the wind cooled the still hot ashes, he pulled out a small jar and did his best to gather them, knowing that there might be a parent who would wish to have their child’s remains brought back home. It wasn’t much...but he could not leave her to be corrupted. He just...couldn’t. Too much Death, too much violence...and he sat back down, feeling black grief overwhelm him.

  
"...Charter, _forgive_ me..."

* * *

"Sire, a message from the Abhorsen." Thor looked up from his paperwork, eyes almost crossed from all the legislation he'd been signing all day long, and he took the thick missive with a heavy, worried heart. They'd sent out runners nearly three weeks prior in search of his beloved niece when she'd failed to appear at the next checkpoint, and truly, he feared the worst...which, given the magic of the Old Kingdom, could wind up very bad indeed.

  
He opened the black and silver seal with a single Charter mark, and read through the contents swiftly...feeling his last hope fade completely. Hela was dead, and in her death, the Edge Hill Stone had been violently broken. Loki would be heartbroken...

  
_Majesty;_

  
_I shall keep this short and simple; Lady Hela has passed beyond the Ninth Gate at the hands of a renegade necromancer from the West, judging by the markings left in his robes. He, and the Dead he summoned, have also been cast into Death, and will not return. A Charter mage-healer, Doctor Banner, aided us in fighting the necromancer, and provided the proper rites to Lady Hela; her ashes rest on the wind._

  
_There is, however, another problem; the necromancer murdered the Lady upon the Edge Hill Stone, splitting it in two, and opening the door to Death. I cannot close it completely; my blood is not sufficient. I beg that you come and heal the Stone. I would not ask this of his Highness Prince Loki, but I must of you; only those of Royal, or Clayr, blood may heal the Stones, it seems, and the Glacier is too far away to make it in time._

  
_Respectfully,_

  
_Abhorsen._

  
The King stood, striding out of the room with the letter in hand, and made his way through the enormous Palace to his brother's tower. There, Loki had once lived with his family, his wife, three children, and their magic...but sadly, the years had taken much from the Royal Advisor and younger Prince. First his wife, Angbroda of the Northern Wastes, to a terrible fever that had carried off half the population of both Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom, just after his youngest child, Hela, had been born. Then Fenrir and Jorgamundr, to the dangers of the Kingdom itself...and now...

  
He knocked, carefully, on the door to Loki's suite, and frowned deeper when the door simply swung open...only to find his brother completely unconscious, a second letter in his hand, and a bottle of brandy in the other. Tears still wet his cheeks, and Thor felt a wave of protective sorrow fill him as he gently dislodged the heavy bottle, then carefully scooped up his brother and carried him to bed.

  
The letter Loki had held bore the same message, if a little more sympathetic, and Thor recognized Darcy's hand; wise, for as good as Natasha was, she was...a bit more stoic about such things. It was a gentle and kindly gesture, though, and he would remember it down the road. For now, though, it was his duty to care for his brother, and help him through the terrible grief...

* * *

Hours must have passed when Loki opened sticky, sore eyes to the darkness in his rooms, and he dully wondered if he'd truly died; he wished it, with all his soul, for now his family was all beyond the Ninth Gate, and he was so alone...But...no. He ached all over, he was nursing a terrible hangover that could have only come from that damned brandy from the Clayr's Glacier, and he was lying in his bed, still fully clothed. So. He was alive.

  
"Brother?" His heart, weary and worn and hurting, took comfort in Thor's soft voice, and a huge hand very gently clasped his own slender one, lending warmth and gentleness...but then, Thor had always been a rather gentle soul when he wasn't after a fight. He gave the hand a weak squeeze, and there was a small sound, then a flask held to his lips. Little sips, but that was all he needed; the fiery liquid burned away the headache and nausea, and Loki sighed softly, turning his eyes to his brother as the Charter lamp came into soft light.

  
"...I am sorry I was a drunkard..."

  
"Were I in your place, I suspect I would be worse, Loki. I...Gods, words cannot describe how sorry I am..."

  
"...It's alright. Hela would have chafed over 'unnecessary protection', and she would have never accepted a cage, no matter how gilded. I knew my daughter well enough, Thor...but...that doesn't lessen the guilt. I should have just gone with her, like she asked..." Thor hung his head, clearly feeling just as much guilt, for he had insisted that Loki stay, and the mage sighed, patting his brother's hand absently.

  
"Please don't guilt yourself, brother. It was my choice...And I may not have been able to fight the necromancer who killed her. Then you would have had two losses, and possibly us used against you as Greater Dead. I'm...grateful, that Natalial and Darciel were able to send the Dead on, and give Hela the proper cremation. But...Natalial cannot heal that Stone." He hated to move past the grief, hated to think of something other than his mourning...but it was in the blood. It was his duty to look after the peoples of the Old Kingdom...and his duty to protect them.

  
"No. We, however..." Loki glanced up at Thor, surprised, especially at the look of contemplation on his older brother's face, and slowly shook his head.

  
"Brother, I can heal it..."

  
"I know. But you and I, we have not ventured beyond the Palace in...well. Too long. And this Stone would be stronger for two Royals." Well, he did have a point...But Thor was not just his own man...

"But, the Senate!"

  
"They rarely notice me anyway; what's a few weeks in the Winter Recess? We go out, meet the Abhorsen, and if there are other Stones, then we do our solemn duty. We visit our people again, Loki, and pay our respects not just to Hela, but to the boys, and to your beloved." He glanced down at that, feeling his heart twinge a little more...but Thor was right. Going out to heal the Stone was...a much better idea than sitting here, dead drunk in his grief. He took a deep, steadying breath, and nodded, looking back up with something that...wasn't a smile, but wasn't despair, either.

  
"...Alright. Let us make haste; that Stone should not remain broken for too much longer." And while the grief only ebbed away a little...it did ebb. And...as Loki well knew, it would fade with time...  
  


* * *

 

"Captain!" Phil turned, keeping his face an impassive smile, and stifled a sigh as the truck roared up over the hill. It was a big, flashy affair, brand new by Ancelstierre standards, and clearly out here simply to drop off some very important people...and of course, just as soon as he thought that, the winds out of the Old Kingdom roared up and over the Wall, and the truck died at the first breath of magic and icy cold air in the warm autumn day.  
"Aw, damn..." He muttered, slinging his now useless gun over his shoulder and walking up to the truck, steeling himself for the barrage of insults and demands. He wasn't long in waiting at all.

  
"What the hell is going on here?!" Came the familiar bellow, and Coulson sighed again as first Commander Pierce, then all of his lackeys and hangers-on poured out of the vehicle, absolutely infuriated. He endured the tidal wave of rage and indignation for a solid thirty minutes before finally clearing his throat, and motioning to the vast stretch of Wall behind him.

  
"What is going on, Commander, is the very thing we've warned you about, many, many times. You cannot drive this close to the Wall, especially in the winter and fall, without risking complete shutdown of all vehicles and machinery. We can't even use our guns here; ever wonder why more sword and knife and bow wounds come from this area, and that we never use up our bullet rations? Well, this is why. The winds out of the Old Kingdom are full of both Charter and Free magic, and whether you believe it or not, I don't really care; the fact is that they exist, and they wreak total havoc on normal items."

  
As per usual, there were stares, more indignation, and yet more yelling, and he finally just had them all sent to the guesthouse in one of the nicer carriages they'd kept from their Old Kingdom compatriots, and went back to his bunker to go over the rest of the night's plans with his own CO. General Fury had been on the Wall for most of his nearly forty year career, and knew every grisly story that had ever been told about it, too. More than that, though...he was a powerful Charter mage, like many of his captains and sergeants.

  
He was even considering retirement in Belisaere; though he hadn't been born inside the Old Kingdom, his father had been, and so it ran in his blood. Phil, however, had just been one of the oddball ducks who had a knack for the magic, and so he'd been granted a Charter mark, and taught pretty well. And fifteen years on the Wall had only reinforced his preference; he'd only left for the South once, and he'd hated every second of it.

  
"Captain, what was Pierce squawking about out there?"

  
"Mostly about how we were all liars, etc, etc...think he'll feel that way tomorrow, when we do a Charter magic demonstration?"

  
"Oh, probably...he's one of those old Our Country fools from the old days of Touchstone I and the Abhorsen Sabriel. You could burn him with Free magic, even, and he'd say you took a torch to him. In any case, we've been asked for a favor from the King." Phil perked up at that, and pulled out the Old Kingdom almanac and map; always useful, especially since the map was enchanted.

  
"What's His Highness up to?"

  
"Evidently, there's been a Stone broken by a necromancer; he's heading out with his brother to heal it, but he'd like to request further patrols inside the Wall, with Charter mages."

  
"Sounds like my kinda job."

  
"That's what I thought, too. You're gonna gather up May, Hill, and Carter, and head towards Heather Crest; you should meet the King there if you four hurry."

  
"...you sure you wanna put four mages together, sir? Why not spread us out?"

  
"Because I want my four strongest with the King. He's a pretty tough guy, and his brother is a damned fine sorceror, but something is very wrong on the ground there. This is the fourth necromancer attack we've heard of in this month; all down along the Wall's border, too. And as you well know..." Phil blanched; Dead from literal centuries rested uneasy beneath the soil here on the Wall, and if a necromancer managed to, say, break the Wind Flutes the Abhorsen had carved...

  
"He'd have an army in the blink of an eye that could number in the millions."

  
"Exactly. I've got a bunch of new, young mages who're pretty damn smart and steady; I trust them to guard the Wall itself. You, however, are in charge of helping guard the King and his brother...rumor has it that it was Loki's last surviving child that was murdered." The sickness must have shown, because Nick sighed softly. "Don't pass that around, okay? He's...pretty damned heartbroken, from all accounts, and understandably so."

  
Phil could only nod; it was the Wall Guard's one great failure in this generation, the deaths of Royal Advisor Loki's two sons, who'd been out on the Ranger patrols when they'd been attacked by a Mordicant, broken free from the fledgling necromancer who'd summoned it. It had taken a suicide move by both of them to send it back into death, and had taken the life of the Abhorsen Marael to seal it away beyond the final Gates. It had been a terrible, terrible day, ten years ago...And now, to lose the one child he'd had left.

  
"Of course, sir...We'll set out first thing in the morning."

  
"Thank you. Pass along the word to the other three that you four are dismissed from night duty; pack and rest up, and grab the best horses for a long ride in the morning. Here's my writ; if the quartermaster gives you hell, give 'im this." He nodded again, snapping out a crisp salute, and went back to the mess, glad he could catch the three women just in time. They all nodded at the new orders, and he was gratified to see them all go back to their bunker, clearly intent on a night of packing and sleep.

  
He wouldn't worry about them, then; that part of the trip was in good hands. He, however, would stay up, memorize the roads to the Stones he knew...and by morning, he'd be ready to point the right way. He just...hoped, and prayed, that this was the last necromancer for awhile; there had been too much blood shed already, and it was more than time for the Old Kingdom to enjoy a little peace.

* * *

_Ancelstierre, 80 years ago_

  
“C’mon, Bucky, let’s go!” Steve bounced with careless abandon as he tossed their baggage into the belly of the stealth plane that would be carrying them on the scouting mission over the Old Kingdom. His best friend and co-pilot, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, sighed and went over the map yet again; Steve was about ready to rip it out of his hands, he was so annoyed. “Buck, seriously, we’ll be fine!”

  
“Oh really? How are we gonna be fine in a place with actual magic?” He growled, making a few more notations over the carefully sketched lines Steve had already drawn the night before. Most of the map was pretty empty still; they’d done stratospheric scouting for the last two weeks, mostly edging close to the Old Kingdom border but staying in Ancelstierren airspace.

  
However, it was time to go farther afield; Steve and Bucky had mapped out nearly all of the area visible within the confines of their binoculars. And their commanding officer was hellbent that he’d deliver a full map of the Old Kingdom by Christmas...complete with all the crucial army and navy supply depots and outposts. Steve sighed a little as Bucky finished rolling up their copy (the general had his own) and tucked it safely in beside Steve’s seat.  
“Ready, Mr. Chicken?” He teased, swinging himself up into the plane proper and pulling on his helmet and gear, and Bucky growled more, following him.

  
“I’m tellin’ ya, Steve, this is a huge mistake. We’ve never been in a place with magic before-”

  
“You keep talkin’ about magic, Buck, but where’s the proof? I thought you were a guy who loved science more than anything, and here ya are freakin’ out over some mumbo-jumbo those guys up by the Wall were talkin’ about! Hell, all the Southerlings were over the moon to get some free land up around those parts, so clearly they don’t care at all! And they’re the most superstitious people ever!” He ruffled Bucky’s hair right before he put on his helmet, ignoring his best friend’s swat and snarl, and buckled himself in, starting up the fancy jet. It was brand spanking new, with all the latest gadgets and gizmos, and had Steve and Bucky not been the two best pilots in all of Ancelstierre, they’d never have gotten a chance to even breathe on it.

  
It was that important; all their work was important, in fact, but this...this mapping, it was special. This was going to the prime minister and Parliament, who were, even now, getting ready to welcome the King and Queen of the Old Kingdom...well, false king and queen, he supposed. After all, didn’t Ancelstierre claim the Old Kingdom as a northern province? So, they were part of this nation now, and for his part, Steve hoped they’d take it well.  
Bucky’s silence broke him from his musings, however, and he sighed.

  
“...I’m sorry for razzing you...” Another sigh met him, and Bucky just waved it off.

  
“Let it go. I’m not in the mood to hear your shit, and you’re too...whatever, to hear mine. Let’s just get this done; I’m kinda tired today.” He winced a little, but set to work, and in no time at all, they were making their faintly terrifying way down the runway, bumping hard over the tarmac towards the cliffs, towards certain doom...when like a sling shot, they rocketed into the sky, and Bucky set a course to follow the jet stream up into the atmosphere.

  
Steve, for his part, was stabilizing the cockpit so that they could endure the stresses so high up, and he kept a weather eye on the dials, checking as he pulled out the map, tightened it on his board, and peered out the window to see if he could start sketching. They’d taken off near the Eastern Light, curving up over the ocean like usual, but staying over it for a change, following the winds to the north.

  
Sure enough, they passed the initial cut-off margin in about fifteen minutes; he was sketching out the expanse of a huge wooded area and two little towns, one right on the coast, one near the Ratterlin further inland. Bucky kept his hands on the throttle and guided them up, up slowly, curving now over the island city of Belisaere. Steve made sure to furiously sketch all that he could; no one currently in the Ancelstierren army had even set foot near the capital of the Old Kingdom, let alone seen it.

  
He was so enthralled with the sights and his map, in fact, that he didn’t realize there was a problem until Bucky swore, and the jet gave a great, shuddering gasp...then dropped like a struck bird. Steve tossed the board behind him with a swear of his own and both men fought against both the forces of gravity and the throttles, desperately trying to manually level off the plane with absolutely no electronic aid. It was terrifying to see the earth rushing up so fast to meet them, and Steve’s arms screamed as finally, finally they managed to level off enough to bring it in for a rough landing.

  
Rough, and cold; the mountains looming up fast were icy white and snow began to plaster their windows, destroying their visibility within moments. Both men, however, held tight to the controls and prayed; the last image before the snow had promised a valley to crash in, if they stayed on this path, and as the snow and ice began to blanket the ship, slowing it and dragging it down, Bucky gave Steve a faint, weak smile...

  
Just as he opened his mouth to say something, some... _thing_ tore through the side of the plane and Bucky was ripped away with a scream, while Steve howled out his loss into the merciless blizzard...And that was the last thing he knew, before darkness stole him away.

* * *

_The Old Kingdom, present day_

  
“Show me the last known coordinates again, and line them up over the map the General gave us.” Alexander Pierce studied the hand drawn map with care, taking his time over the area his aides had put on the Charter-run projector he’d requested. He himself could not reach the Charter; that was why they were using one of the young mages, a private by the name of Rumlow, who was manning the projector with rather estimable quiet.

  
Unlike the arrogant mage earlier...but, as always, Pierce swallowed the urge to throttle Captain Coulson and went back to his paperwork, carefully drawing out a leather-bound book that was cracked and gray with age. The book itself wasn’t truly all that important; it was full of sketches, everything from a dancing monkey in a suit to some truly lovely profiles of the female administration, their features and fashion of a style that was nearly a century old now.

  
Captain Steven Rogers and his compatriot, Sergeant Barnes, had been declared MIA after a failed scouting flight over the capital of the Old Kingdom, back in the tumultuous days of the Our Country party and the assassinations of the King and Queen. There had been, of course, a huge uproar, with hundreds, both soldiers and civilians, demanding to know the price Belisaere would pay for shooting their men out of the sky...

  
However...that had been when things had started to change. Belisaere had claimed innocence, even stating that they had no means with which to harm such a technological marvel as the stealth jet, even being so bold as to state that it was clearly a magical cause. Millions had protested that particular statement, until a group of powerful officials had demanded access to all of Belisaere’s secrets...

  
And to their collective shock, Queen Ellimere had given it. Somber from her parents’ deaths, she had led the politicians and Army officials throughout all of Belisaere, explaining to them that her people had the Charter magic with which to create the wonders they saw...they had no need for technology that wouldn’t work even if they did bring it here. Upon seeing, and documenting, the very obvious technological inferiority of the city, and the villages outside it, a decision had been made...

  
The Old Kingdom would remain its own sovereign entity, for it posed no true threat to the people of Ancelstierre. The Queen agreed to all terms, even sending a rich shipment of treasure and fine horses with them across the Wall to show her willingness to obey, and Ancelstierre quieted and accepted that the two men were sent on a mission that was too out of their league, and that while it was a grievous loss, it was not a reason to start a war. The Queen, and her descendants had kept their end of the bargain rather neatly, though with a few more shadows behind them than ninety percent of the South knew...

  
For King Touchstone and Queen Sabriel had not perished in the bomb that killed nearly all of their guards. They had escaped, making their grim way along the Western coast until they were able to seek refuge at the Abhorsen’s House, safe along the Ratterlin River. He had seen the original documents of all those officials; the King had met with them, once it was all said and done, and reminded them that their actions could very easily have cost them dearly for trying to kill him, and his wife.

  
It was then that they learned what the Abhorsen truly was...and what her power meant.

  
Pierce thumbed through the sketches as all this ran through his mind, partly memory, from hearing one of those old, old men speak when he was just a boy, partly factual knowledge from the reports. He paused, however, on the last sketch, and felt a smile with no humor stretch across his lips, a familiar heat making him wet them with the tip of his tongue.

  
Steve Rogers had not believed in the magic, but it knew him; Charter marks, old and faded, scattered as Pierce picked up a very special piece of the thick parchment. The Clayr glacier and mountains were beautifully sketched across the span of the page, colored in with only the lightest of blues and grays, and done with such care that it might have been his birthplace...

And in fact...it was. He dismissed all of the aides, and the young mage, with a warm smile and fatherly waves out the door, and settled himself down in front of the fire, still holding that sketch before him...when some...thing emerged from the shadows, walking silently over the old wooden floors, face hidden behind a black mask, shaggy hair lit in the hellish light of the flames that glinted too off the metallic, too fluid skin of that left arm...

  
It....no....he stood tall, darkness incarnate, and Pierce felt his lips tug up into a vicious, proper smile, the heat of the Free magic on his tongue burning to be set free, to be given deadly purpose. Now...this was a proper welcome home.

  
“Come, my friend; we’ve a great deal of work to do.”


	2. Charter and Stone

Tony swore softly as he walked, rubbing Dottie’s neck as she limped along next to him, but not at her. It wasn’t her fault some callous bastard had salted the roadway with sharp shards of flint and volcanic glass, cutting her poor feet to ribbons. The pain, in turn, had made her tumble head over hooves, and Tony had had to roll off her back into a ditch, struggling out of snow drifted almost two feet deep to get back up to the icy roadway and his injured girl.

  
He’d pulled her up, helped her over to the clearest patch of road he could reach, and bandaged her hooves and cuts as best as he could, wrapping her blanket over her and soothing her with a mush in her bag, warmed by Charter magic and a little ingenious wizardry of his own. A quick glyph left a warning for all who might pass after him, and he set back on the road, grim and eyes searching out a place to rest for the night. She was shaken, startling at every little noise from the growing darkness, and he soothed her as best he could, murmuring soft words and keeping a hand on her nose, rubbing and petting her.

  
They were headed up the road now, darkness gathering in eerie shadows as the heavy clouds rolled in from the North, and Tony shivered, shifting to draw out his map to peer at it in the fading light. The map was far older than Tony; it was a relic of the Regninterrim, almost three hundred years previous, when the Abhorsen clan had fallen to so very few, and Kerrigor had returned from Death, seeking his old body in which to forge an undying link to Life...his own great grandfather had found it, buried in the ruins of the Palace as a boy, and restored the Charter spells.

  
Spells of truth and clarity, spells tied to the very land itself, for this map had changed with the centuries, despite its long, long stay in the Royal Library. He'd passed Barhedrin Hill two days previous, skirting the long line of steps up in favor of camping instead at the bottom. Not that he couldn't make the hike up, but there was no one to impress around him, and the Stone itself was a warm and comforting influence, even so far down; no, nothing was wrong up on the crest, and so he whiled away his evening sketching and tinkering, while Dottie dozed on her feet.

  
He squinted, wondering if he ought to conjure a Charter light to guide them to a safe camp for the night, when the first wave of nausea hit him. Like a punch to the gut, he doubled over, forcing himself not to retch with all of his self-control; he couldn't afford to lose food, not in the cold like this. Another wave took him to one knee, and he gritted his teeth, willpower succeeding at last as he glanced at the map...and went cold in a way no winter could produce.

  
The Heather Crest Stone...on the map, it now lay riven in two, broken by the blood of a Charter mage. No wonder he felt nauseated and despairing; his little-used Death sense was fair screaming now, the yawning void to Death wrenched open and left there...and now the shadows took on more menace, and he bared his teeth as he drew his sword. Dead lurked in those shadows, though they had no purpose; he said a prayer of thanks for that, that there was no necromancer nearby to control them. That meant they were weak, newly of Death...and even though he was no Abhorsen, he knew the bells.

  
With a jaunty, crowing whistle, he gave Dottie a slap on the rump and a Charter command to find safety, taking only his sword and shield as Kibeth's melody sheared through the growing silence...And then, they struck. Time became nothing as Tony fought; he didn't have the bulk of most of the men of the Old Kingdom, his body slimmer and more fine-boned, but he'd trained as a babe with the best fighters on the continent...and had fought Dead alongside the Abhorsen more than enough.

  
Sparks and fire rained over the oily shadows as they tried to touch him, any part of him; Kibeth's tune kept them at bay while his sword severed their connection to Life, forcing them howling through the Gates. He danced, light and fast on his feet as he struck time and time again, the Charter magic chaining as he spun out his spell...and he landed a perfect jump-twirl with the spell's final mark, slamming spell and sword into the ground. Waves of magical fire seared out from his form, consuming the remaining Dead...and finally, the battle was won.

  
Hard-won, for his body ached, sweat already chilling under his armor, and a dozen or more cuts and bruises covered his arms and legs, one massive one on his back from where he'd been shoved into a tree. But he was alive, alive and well, and he hurried back along the road, desperate to see how well his horse was...only to come to a dead stop, throat tightening, at the graceful figure on the road. She'd been dragged down hard, probably by the reins; some kind deity had seen her plight and broken her neck as she landed, for the dead things had clearly lost interest in a mere horse when they could have a man.

  
Tony sucked in a ragged breath, and kneeled to shut her eyes, easing off the packs and pulling her off the road so that she wouldn't cause the death of another. He repacked the things he would need on the way back; the rest, he left to the other travelers out there...but there was still the terrible presence of the Stone; he picked up his map, still resting in the snow where it had fallen, and breathed softly on one special inked-in box.

  
"Show me the Abhorsen."

 

* * *

  
Loki was reading in the saddle as Thor led their small party; four mages from the Perimeter Wall, and five of their own Royal guards, strong battle mages who had seen much in their young lives. The Regninterrim had had long lasting effects, far past the days of Touchstone and Sabriel, of Lirael Goldenhand, Sameth, and Ellimere. Those five brave souls had reshaped the Old Kingdom, casting down the Ninth Bright Shiner with the help of the Clayr, the vengeful destroyer Orannis, and ending the too-long reign of the Greater Dead Chlorr of the Mask, once Clariel, a daughter of both the Royal and Abhorsen lines.

  
They had rebuilt not only the Palace, but all of Belisaere, and strengthened both the land, and the people, restoring all of the Charter Stones, and in their later years, extending the Charter deep into the Northern Desert, to the Great Rift itself. Their children, and their children's children, had continued that proud tradition, and the villages and towns had flourished once again, growing with new life and purpose...and Loki was very proud of his family, both the sacrifices, and the gifts they'd given. His daughter, Hela, had been as tenacious as he, and just as mischievous, and his sons had been well loved by the Border towns.

  
His wife had been a familiar face throughout the city, and when he went out, wandering her favorite shops, he showed her same kindness and love when he would buy things for the children who inevitably always followed him around. Poverty was all but vanquished in their kingdom now; even the meanest jobs were well-paid, and all children schooled regardless of cost. Thor had been very frank with his Senate; he did not care for, nor need gold on every surface when that gold could go into the hearts and minds of his nation's children. Loki, of course, was still gleefully proud.

  
Even the deaths of his family hurt less now; each had died caring for their people, in their own way, and he could only hope he would find the same kindness for himself. He glanced up, stretching the strain in his neck, and caught the eye of the Captain from the Perimeter; Coulson, a man from Ancelstierre with the rare gift of skill in the Charter. He smiled wanly, and Coulson had the grace to flush, looking a bit ashamed.

  
"...You wonder at how calm I am."

  
"...A...little. I couldn't imagine the pain you must feel, and I could never be so collected about it." Loki shrugged, putting his book in his pack and drawing his cloak around him a little tighter.

  
"...When one has suffered losses, sometimes...one seeks to simply be, rather than feel. If I do something for the good of my people, if I heal what has been broken, then I will be of far more use than sitting in my study and drinking myself to oblivion. I miss my last child desperately; were I a less-understanding man, I would have begged the Abhorsen to return her to Life. But it would be a cruel thing for her, and a terrible existence; better that she is gone to the heavens and at peace, than a shambling excuse for a life." And while his heart still twinged at the words, they were all true. Painful. But true.

  
"...We are so very lucky, sir, that we have you and your brother as our lieges."

  
"No, Captain; we are the lucky ones. We are lucky that our people have accepted the necessary changes we were forced to make to better all our lives, in spite of some of the more significant inconveniences they've caused. And we are lucky to be in the position we are in, for our forebears suffered mightily at the hands of the Greater Dead Kerrigor. And most of all, we are lucky that those of Ancelstierre, such as yourself, have accepted and willingly used the Charter to combat enemies that had you remained in the south, you never would have encountered. We owe you and yours a debt of gratitude."

  
The older captain actually blushed again, a smile on his lips, and Loki gave him a truer smile in return, chuckling a bit. It was...pleasant, even with the cold, to be out of the palace; too many reminders of what they had both lost, too many shadows that wouldn’t really go away. The air was crisp, the snow still white and softly fallen, the road cleared rather well. Even as the sun began to set, this third day’s ride out of Belisaere, the soft fluff glittered and glowed with light, and Loki could just about make out faint sparkles of Charter magic in the scattered farms around them.

  
“Brother!” Thor’s booming voice made them all snap to attention, and Loki spurred his horse with a sharp word and the touch of a heel, cantering up to the head of the expedition, a Charter mark already at hand. Thor's voice had softened, his normal jovial face solemn and worried, as he came close. "Look ahead. Your sense of the Dead is far stronger than mine, but I sense nothing on that man but the Charter..." Loki peered through the growing gloom...then nodded, relaxing.

  
"I know him; he is a talented Charter mage back home, and he must be returning to Belisaere. Let us catch up to him, and see what he needs. But be wary, I see a glyph of foot-danger on the road ahead of him, likely ice or rocks." They all spurred their horses carefully now, some of their men cursing what were obviously flints and shards of iron in the hard-packed ice, and came upon the weary, battle-torn fellow...who threw up his sword and a Charter shield, though it was obviously a terrible strain.

  
"Back! Show me your true colors!" Thor's shock was just as strong as Loki's; not one mage in a thousand could call out a spell and words, and to back that spell with such a powerful will...All ten Charter marks flared to life in the new night, and he relaxed, slowly lowering his weapon. "...Sorry about that, guys; can't be too careful. The Hands downed my horse just a mile up the road; I came back this way when I heard hoofbeats. I thought for certain, though, you'd all be the Abhorsen..."

  
"You're not wrong, Tony!" Everyone jerked at the sound of Natasha's clarion voice, husky with the cold as she crested the ridge, riding double with a cloaked man behind her, Darcy following. "This way! We've a safe camp!" Thor gestured for the Scouts and Loki to go on ahead; Loki, for his part, offered Tony an arm.

  
"Ride with me; it's bitterly cold out here, and you're exhausted." The dark-haired man smiled wanly, sheathing his sword at last and took Loki's arm, swinging up carefully and settling before gripping the saddle. Loki chirruped his gelding and started the long climb up the hill, and contemplated a healing spell, but...the nausea from the Stone, though obviously now heavily shielded, was still too strong.

  
"My thanks, Highness; I'm sorry I was so suspicious."

  
"My friend, these are not times when we can enjoy the luxury of trust. We would do the same to you, if it were needed. Are you wounded any?"

  
"Just cuts and scrapes, and pretty cold." Loki clucked gently to his horse, urging the older gelding over an icy patch with a firm hand, and carefully worked out of his cloak a small flask, handing back to the other man.

  
"Just sips; it's potent stuff, but it should help." Tony took it, and Loki could almost imagine the raised eyebrow and faint suspicion, but a click of the bottle, and a soft gasp told him he'd drunken it anyway."

  
"Hell, you weren't kidding...stuff's like fire. Good fire, but still..."

  
"Something passed down through the family; most of the healers have a supply, mostly for hypothermia. So, you were expecting Natasha?"

  
"I set a calling spell; when I realized the Stone was broken, I knew I'd need more help than the average mage. Is that why you and the King are here? To heal the stone?" Loki felt his face go stony, heart aching over the knowledge, and he was silent for a good little while...almost to the camp proper when Tony's voice came again, soft and apologetic.

  
"...I'm sorry, I said the wrong thing..."

  
"...No. You are very correct; my brother and I are here to heal the Stone. My...my youngest child, my daughter, her death was used to break it." The mute horror was too much for him to bear, and Loki slipped off his horse as soon as they passed the camp barrier, let in by a worried looking Darcy. He pulled off his saddle bags, dumped them at a surprised Thor's feet, and took the string of horses to the southern point of the enormous protective diamond.

  
He looked after each creature with the care and single-minded focus of his youth, burying the grief deep, and only paused when a soft hand landed on his shoulder. Thor, his blue eyes sad and soft, offered him a hand up from where he'd been kneeling, fastidiously brushing out the feathered feet of each large hunter...and he took it with a soft sigh.

  
"...I am sorry."

  
"You've no reason to be, brother. None at all. Come, please, and eat? Just with me, my brother." He amended hastily, as Loki cast a desperate gaze at the knot of guards, Scouts, Abhorsen and her retinue, and Tony, and showed his brother to a pair of logs around a separate fire. "I...felt it wise to simply talk together for a little while. If you wanted to talk. Which you don't have to!" As he babbled on, Loki felt a tired, soft smile touch his lips.

  
"...come brother. I think I'd like to talk. Just a little." The smile he got in return was enough to warm a little of the ice around his heart; the stew did the rest. It still hurt; it would always hurt. But...he could endure it. So long as he had his brother by his side.

 

* * *

 

 "So, that's the King? And that poor girl's father is his brother?" Bruce felt a dizzying combination of nerves, worry, and scrutiny as he tried to catch glimpses of King Thor's face. Darcy seemed to take pity on him; Natasha just sighed.

  
"Yes. Please, Bruce...I know full well how traumatizing things have been for you, but understand that Loki and Thor are very close, and that Loki has lost...a lot. A lot more than most people really know." Chastised, he settled back to his food, eating quietly. He felt a bit guilty; he wasn't from Belisaere, he was from Nestowe, and his family had never really traveled much until himself, especially not...since the incident, so most of the Old Kingdom was very new, even still. And he certainly hadn't ever seen any of the royals; he knew that the King himself was unmarried and childless, and that the Royal Advisor's children would inherit if he did not produce an heir...but...

  
"...I am sorry..."

  
"It's alright. Just...don't take it personal, okay? They're very, very close; brothers and best friends, and of all the people here, Thor is the one that I think Loki would be willing to lean on best. He knows me and Darcy, and respects Tony's work, but he's been sequestered for years in the Senate dealing with things, so he hasn't been out of the castle much. I've seen him, sadly, only a handful of times...and all of those in dealing with the Dead." Natasha's voice was weary and exhausted, and Bruce felt a pang of concern over her condition.

  
"Tasha...how is your leg?"

  
"...not all that good, to be honest. Rounding up the last batch of Dead reopened the wound. Could you take a look later?" He nodded, lips pursing, and she patted his cheek with a soft smile. "It's alright. We'll have the tents up with the spells tonight; the Guard and Scouts already volunteered to take the watches, so the rest of us can settle for the night." One of the Guard, a dark-haired lady by the name of Sif, offered her own smile, only a touch cool.

  
"We are well rested, and we know how weary you all are; we shall watch in pairs, to split the load." One of the senior Scouts nodded, a dark-haired lady wearing a no-nonsense bun and sky-blue eyes, unsmiling but calm, with an aura of professionalism that made even Tony straighten his posture.

  
"One Scout, one Guard; we're all skilled fairly equally, so you needn't worry about the night. We've got a few tricks too to keep any of the Dead that might creep over at bay, and we intend to use each of them. In addition, we've got something that I think the Abhorsen will appreciate..." The woman drew one of the saddlebags over, pulling out a case of dark mahogany and spelled silver, opening it to reveal four wooden flutes, carved beautifully of the same wood and inlaid with more silver. It was Tony's gasp that made the others look over; even the King and Advisor glanced up from their low conversation.

  
"THAT'S why Fury ordered those! They're Wind Flutes; Tasha, they're like the ones you made for the Perimeter." She chuckled a little, eyes twinkling, and reached out to draw one out.

  
"Of course they are; I carved them, and because I was busy running up and down the whole length of the Ratterlin, I sent them to you to be spelled. You're easily the best mage in the Kingdom, Tony; possibly even of our generation. There was no one better; I just had Fury sign off so that way you'd get the gold for it and so that I could be sure that they actually made it to the Perimeter. I wanted to see if the design could be made portable; I'm proud to say that it can. Now...let us put them up at the four points, and rest; I need this leg looked at, Darcy's exhausted from laying down the diamond, Tony, you're dead tired, and day is still hours away."

  
Everyone nodded in unison, and the group broke up into teams to put up the remaining four tents. Darcy held open the curtain to their own, and Natasha slowly stood up...only to wobble and fall onto Bruce's shoulder, grimacing as dark blood stained her leathers. He helped her into the spell-warmed shelter and Darcy knotted the laces closed, shoving up her sleeves and moving to help Natasha peel out of the bloody pants. Bruce was already weaving a Charter spell of healing, and shuddered at the necrotic wound.

  
"Natasha..."

  
"Yeah, I know. I should have called on you sooner and met you in Nestowe; I just...figured I was strong enough to spell it closed...ah, damn, Darce, get the kit."

"He's gonna have to do some cutting, and you will NOT be up and fighting tomorrow, you got that?"

  
"But..."

  
"If need be, I'll go into Death." Natasha shoved a few white-red locks of hair out of her eyes, panting from the pain, and met Darcy's own dark ones, the two of them sharing a look that was disturbingly similar, for all they didn't look like sisters in the slightest.

  
"Alright. But...take my bells. The set from the Clayr have always been trickier than the birthright set." She nodded, one hand unconsciously caressing the bandolier, and Natasha caught her hand, squeezing tight. "Sister, promise me." Darcy smiled, just a little.

  
"Only if you promise me that you'll lay here and rest and let us guard you. Okay?" Tasha gave a weak laugh that turned into a faint yelp as Bruce set to work, and nodded frantically, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

  
"I promise...ah...shit that hurts..." Bruce watched it all with dark, worried eyes, cutting away the rotted flesh with a careful eye and pouring a truly reckless amount of Charter magic into the wound, his hands and lips fair glowing with power. Thankfully, it was enough to ease Natasha's suffering; she slipped into unconsciousness soon after that little talk, and Darcy became his helper again, keeping a weather eye on her sister's condition and helping him sterilize the tools and prep the needles. First, muscle and tissue were stitched together, then the newly cut skin, and with careful, even stitches, he was able to close the wound at last, though the scar would be long and rather painful for a good long while.

But, she was healing fast from the spell's power, even this close to the riven stone, and her sleep had deepened to one of true-sleep; a little help from Darcy to bandage her leg, and Bruce laid a set of warm blankets over her, heated brick at the foot to keep her at a good even temperature. Darcy had finished sterilizing the instruments and bagging up the bandages to be burned, stifling yawns the whole time, and Bruce took the bag with a soft smile.

  
"Darce, lay down and rest; you're more tired than the rest of us."

  
"But..."

  
"No buts. Doctor's orders." She rolled her eyes at that, but her smile softened the action, and she nestled up next to her sister, sword at the ready, eyelids already drooping closed as he vanished the Charter light that had helped them work, and slipped back outside. The tents were put up, the first shift was ready, and it seemed that everyone was already asleep, or nearing slumber; the Captain of the Perimeter Scouts and youngest of the Royal Guard were quietly patrolling the diamond, one eye ever on the stone. The Captain gave Bruce a respectful nod, and let him burn the used gauze.

  
"How are things with the Abhorsen, Doctor?"

  
"...Rough, to be honest, but she's healing better now with the rest of the rot out of her. She and Darcy are sleeping deeply; if you need any help with spells, please wake me first? I'm no Tony Stark, but I'm a good mage." Relief crossed their faces, and he felt a bit of pride at offering. The Guard nodded, his curls and earnest youth rather comforting, if a bit out of the ordinary.

  
"Thankee sir. We...the Captain and I, we were hoping you'd offer, or say yes if asked. The King and His Highness must rest for tomorrow, for they'll be no stronger than lambs after the healing, and the Abhorsen and her apprentice have earned their rest." He smiled, patting the boy on one armored shoulder, and nodded, heading to the tent where Stark was sleeping.

  
"It's an honor; please don't hesitate to shake me awake." They wished him quiet good nights, and he slipped in, unsurprised to see Stark awake, though struggling to remain so.

  
"We never have had the chance to meet properly, Doctor..."

  
"And tonight is not the night I care to go into that. Sleep, Tony." He pitched his voice low, eyes dark and brows furrowed, and was gratified to see the spell drop Tony like a stone, snoring softly on his bedroll. Bruce sighed, wishing it hadn't come to that, but...well...the fewer people who knew about the...incident, the better off he was. The better off they all were, to be frank.

 

* * *

 

Natasha grit her teeth as the next wave of itching passed over her leg, and settled for meditation instead, closing her eyes as she sat on her bedroll outside of the tent. She was, for all intents and purposes, entirely invalid for the time being; it was driving her crazy. Which was why the King had agreed to allow her to help with the spell weaving while Darcy had joined the Guard and Scouts in watching the perimeter. Tony and Bruce were both her go-fers and building the base of the Charter spell while Loki stood as the sentinel, eyes half-closed and murmuring as the power poured from him.

  
She added her layer, carefully crafted between the spasms of lingering pain and the incessant itching, and settled back, eyes tired and heavy even from a solid night of sleep. She watched the spell weave together, making her next part as she waited for her turn to come back around, and steeled her jaw against another damn yawn. Thor was finishing the final preparations, magicking his own blood to heal the Stone itself, and so far, everything looked pretty damn good.

  
It was nearing noon; the best time to work any healing spells, but especially those that rebuilt the Charter Stones. Even the frozen marks covering the granite seemed to react to the power of the spellcasting they were readying, glimmering with light...But even the best shields, the best preparations never stopped the Dead.

  
Natasha already had Saraneth pulled from her bandolier and her sword half drawn when the Mordicant's sudden entrance into life simply...vanished; distantly, her Death sense, all the more sensitive for the chasm before them, noted a familiar, dancing jig, and Saraneth's commanding tone...and Natasha grinned, feral and proud.

  
Darcy must have dropped into Death earlier than she'd realized, and had caught the Mordicant unawares. Kibeth and Saraneth sent the being howling past the gates, and just in time too, for Natasha had laid her final piece of the spell and Loki had gathered it up in both hands, green eyes glowing almost golden.

  
He turned, still chanting, and met his brother's bloodied hands; together, they laid one hand apiece on each half of the Stone. White light, blinding, searing, too powerful to even glance at, and a tremendous CRACK echoed again and again through the air...and Natasha dared to look up, eyes burning a little...and the dancing Charter marks made her laugh with utter relief. Thor and Loki both were collapsed against the Stone, breathing as though they'd been running for days, while their Guard brought them blankets and restoratives.

  
Another sharp crack, this one of ice breaking, made Natasha crane her head back, smiling as Darcy shook off the last few icicles from her curly hair and nose, cloistering the bells in their respective holders before walking over to flop on the log that supported Natasha's back.

  
"Good job on that Mordicant..."

"Thanks. Just a careful application of my favorite tracking teacher's lessons, that's all. And it was so blind with greed at the blood the King had spilled that it wasn't looking beyond the light." However, her carefully careless expression, looking proud and a little cocky, didn't work on Tasha; it never had.

  
"....But...?"

  
"...There was someone watching. Not here. Not close enough to really see much, either. But someone /was/ watching...And the worst part is, I can't tell if they're alive or Dead." Tasha studied her eyes, her own face growing grim, and Darcy dropped her voice, eyes studying the newly healed Stone. "I'd like to check out the texts at the Clayr's Library, if we can; that someone felt awfully familiar." Natasha jolted a little, eyes narrowing.

  
"It cannot be Kerrigor; he sleeps still deep in Holehallow. Nor is it Orannis; our great uncle had the Ninth Shiner sent far to the South, in a deep desert..."

  
"I know. But there were other enemies to the Old Kingdom, sis...and I suspect that we're only just tapping the surface. I want to talk to Mogget, too." Tasha sighed at that, and Darcy gave her a faint grin. "I promise, he'll get the whole string of fish. Now that he's not bound by that ring and collar, he's usually quite a bit more talkative. But in all seriousness, you're in no shape to travel, and the cousins have an excellent Infirmary. And honestly, Nat, let's face it; you're exhausted, you've been traveling since last winter with no breaks. It's time to take one."

  
They shared a long, cold stare for a solid minute...and Natasha finally broke it with an eyeroll and a faint smile.  
"...Fine. But it's a long ride to the Glacier, and you know I can't ride the mare for a good couple of days..."

  
"Tash, I have the solution to that." Tony crouched down next to her, grinning despite his bruises. "I've already sent one of the King's message hawks to Belisaere and summoned the Paperwing Brigade; they'll be here by evening, we'll leave by morning, alright?" She stared at him, for once at a loss for words, and he flopped down cross-legged, chuckling.

  
"...H-how did you know...?"

  
"Thor just got a message that the Clayr are requesting us. All of us." His grin faded and he grew somber, dark eyes flashing a little. "They said there's been a vision; a powerful one, and we all need to see it. So we'll head out by first light."

  
"...do they know what sort of vision."

  
"No. At least, not yet. But...it doesn't sound good. Not that they ever do, but..." She laughed a little, and he patted her hand, smiling a little tiredly. "You still look pretty tired, hon; why don't we all crash out for a while, and get a nap in?" Darcy grinned, nodding, and Natasha gave in with a tired laugh.

  
"Alright, alright...can you two help me into the tent?" They both agreed, Darcy fetching up the bedroll and laying it back out again, and by the time Tony had limped her over, Natasha was ready to pass out cold, and a glance back at Thor and Loki saw them both sawing logs in their own tent, Thor's feet still poking out of the tent flap. She smiled, said a tired, quiet little prayer for peace, and found herself drifting off into her pillow, warm blankets piled up over her...Sleep ambushed her, and she sank with it gladly.

 

* * *

 

_Something stirs, little brother. We need you home._

  
Blue-hazel eyes snapped open in the quiet of the inn; across from him, Wanda and Pietro were curled up like puppies, only just identifiable by the tufts of brown and white-blond hair poking out of the down comforters. Both were deeply asleep and finally well fed. Not that he wasn't a good cook, but he had nothing on Auntie May downstairs. They'd eaten their fill for the last three nights, the kids helping pay for their meals with cleaning and laundry while he chopped wood and worked in the stables.

  
He had a little silver, a little copper, but he wanted to save it for the hard times, and May was always the kind of person who fed lost souls first, then put them to work. The room, however, was entirely her generosity; she refused to let the three of them sleep in the hayloft when the ice had started to fall outside. Clint had thanked her by helping her nephew Peter tackle a rather nasty, but necessary evil; cleaning out the inn's garderobe while it was still cold and less foul-smelling.

  
Was it pleasant? Not in the slightest. Did it, however, earn them free hot spring baths in the back of the inn? Yes, yes it did, and that alone made it worth it. They'd all three helped with the remaining little chores that May and Pete hadn't been able to finish through the summer since her husband had passed away, and though it had been a busy four days, it was still far more restful than traveling on foot in the snows. And they would be better provisioned, too; May had given both kids free run of the inn's found object bin, and both were warmly dressed and had packs now much like Clint's own.

  
And not only that, they now owned two scrubby geldings, leftover from a gambler who'd spent his last copper penny at cards. She was at a loss of what to do with them, and so Clint had bought them outright with his last gold pieces. They were tough steppe ponies, so they wouldn't be bothered by the cold and ice, and Clint looked forward to setting out again tomorrow, though he was much less happy now that his plans had taken a turn back to the north.

  
But a summons like that couldn't be ignored; if he was /lucky/, his many, many cousins would send a Paperwing crew to pick him up. And it would just be himself, only. If Peggy still held the post as Voice of the Nine Day Watch, she would have had both children brought immediately as well. But...Emma had never been so kind. At least the message came from Pepper; as one of the primaries for the Voice, she was always in the middle of all the communiques, and she wouldn't have called on him unless the situation was dire.

  
Not that he was a prodigy with the Sight, oh no; he'd only ever had one true vision, from the time he was a child to the present day, and Clint knew full well that his Sight never managed to bend itself to the will of the Clayr for more than a handful of messages. It was one of the reasons he'd been 'sent out'. Cast out, more like, particularly since no one but the few cousins he was close to had seen him off, and he hadn't even been granted the right to a personal Paperwing, despite having headed the Brigade since he was twenty. He sighed to himself and slipped out of the bed, donning a long overshirt and his old fleece-lined slippers to pad down into the Inn proper.

  
The barkeep for the nights was an odd sort of fellow; Wade was scarred all over from hideous burns, though he never did say where they'd come from, and Clint hadn't yet had the courage to ask. But he was rather friendly and welcoming, despite the obvious pain he was in, and he never minded pulling out some of the old bread, cheese, or sausage if someone was hungry and needed a little more than the good beer he brewed for May. In fact, Wade seemed to read his mood just perfect tonight...

  
"Hey there, Barton."

  
"Wilson. Beer and a bit of bread, please? Can't sleep and I know this won't help much, but..." He chuckled, bringing up a plate with a bit of summer sausage, cheese, and a warm loaf of rye, and he poured a generous tankard for Clint, earning himself a smile from the blond.

  
"On the house, brother. Not a good night out there; rumors coming from the South a little ways that a Stone was broken." Clint froze at that, feeling his gut roil, and Wade nodded just a little, his own blue eyes growing grim. "And that it was a necromancer proper. A nasty one for certain, if he could break a Stone; I hope the Abhorsen nailed that bastard but good."

  
"...I hope so too. Ain't right, messin' about with that Free Magic bull and bringin' the dead back..." Clint growled a little, taking a long swig of the bitter ale to settle his stomach. Wade nodded in agreement, cleaning the next row of tankards left over from the drinkers hours earlier.

  
"Ain't right at all. I just hope it won't head this way; May and Pete don't need that kinda crap around here. You folks still heading out in the morning?"

  
"Yeah, barrin' the weather. We gotta get to Belisaere before too much longer, get to my place so they can maybe find their family, that sorta thing." Wade gave him a huge, kinda lopsided smile and patted his shoulder, heading back into the kitchen to put away the tankards, and Clint felt a little bad about lying. But he couldn't tell anyone the truth that the kids had confessed; he didn't dare. Not this close to their home village...

  
He sighed a little, finishing up his beer and food, and left the plates in Wade's soapy tin of water, smiling a little as he heard the man singing a soft old love song before heading back upstairs. The kids hadn't stirred; grateful, he slipped back under his own covers and tucked himself in, gazing blankly at the shuttered window. Even his Sight was quiet for a change, and so Clint let himself warm up, floating in the shadows of his own mind as he laid out the problems they faced...and all the possible solutions. It was...not actually sleeping, but he'd rest enough to tackle the coming day; that was all he was worried about.

  
_I'm coming, sister. The vision has remained the same; I pray I may be able to help you with the Sight. But I will be going on to Belisaere for the winter after this...and I'm not alone_.

 

* * *

 

"Sir...sir, I've got the report-...Mr. Secretary!" Jane bristled when he waved her off once more and shut the door to his carriage, and unceremoniously shoved her carefully handwritten reports back into the saddle bags behind her, wishing that her fingers didn't burn quite so badly. Even with the gear the Perimeter Guards had been able to secure, their supplies were woefully under what even she, a bookworm of a University student, would consider acceptable for winter survival.

  
She tucked herself closer over the horse's neck, wishing that the leader would just stop and make camp already, because it was growing dark and they were all tired. Or at least, she was; the rest of the important politicians were sat in the large carriage with Secretary Pierce, and she and the handful of orderlies were to ride alongside, sheltered by the carriage's larger bulk. However...

  
Jane clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering, and tugged her sort of warm cloak a little closer to her, wondering how in the hell she'd ended up along for this insane ride. She was a physicist! An engineer! She had no business going into the Old Kingdom for _anything_ , much less a diplomatic mission. In fact, she had no business with this group of lackeys and soul-sucking leeches whatsoever...but she sighed a little, tugging the scarf up to cover her mouth better, and felt her eyes water with more than just the cold.

  
Andrew Foster was right in the middle of these soul suckers back in the capital, even if he wasn't as highly respected as they were, and he'd alternately begged, pleaded, and finally threatened Jane into coming on this trip as Secretary Pierce's personal assistant, promising darkly to destroy her degree at the university if she refused. So, angry, upset, and thoroughly disappointed by her father's actions, Jane had gotten on the bus and ridden all the way to the north, dismayed and desperate to please the secretary so that maybe, just maybe, she could go home.

  
Never once had she even remotely considered that she might be riding a horse, through snow, in deadly cold, with secondhand gear and a positively chilly set of guards. And something else that made her heart beat a frightened staccato in her chest was this; she was the only woman in the entire party. The orderlies didn't seem to notice her much, nor did the older men they served, and the guards so far had been rather quiet, but there was...a sense of unease, try as she might to tamp it down. Her mother had always been rather keen on Jane following her instincts, so she worked hard to follow them now, and kept close to the carriage, and to the secretary.

  
For all his rather stoic demeanor at times, he was very kind to her and very understanding; she didn't have to share a tent, and there was always plenty of warmth from the fire and some ingenious heating stones that acted as ballast in the carriage. The guards joked about 'Charter Magic'; some of the other guards, the long term ones, had had some curious marks on their foreheads, and Jane had been curious, but she hadn't had the chance to ask about them, or the energy after each long, exhausting day.

  
The thought of actual _magic_  was a bit amusing, and she did find herself laughing a little whenever the subject came up, because really, magic? Magic was, as all scholars know quite well, the poor man's science. It offered explanations, a twisted sort of logic, and a rather curious belief system based on elements and leylines, and all sorts of other esoteric nonsense. It was...more than a little annoying to hear about, but at the same time, this /was/ the main belief system in the Old Kingdom. Better to accept it than to fight with the locals.

  
_If we ever get to Belisaere..._  She didn't try to stop the mutinous thought, nor did she want to; Jane was furious with her father, for the lack of preparation on part of these men, and perhaps a bit guiltily, her own lack of a backbone. Had she just been a little more angry, a little more firm...but, it really was for naught. Her father always got his way, no matter what, and Jane had learned a long time ago that it was easier to give in and avoid the punches when they did start to fly.

  
No matter; she would succeed. She would tackle this assignment just like her own researches back at the warmth and comfort of the Sayre Library, and she would excel, for anything less than perfection simply would not do for her family's continued rise through the ranks. And she would win her freedom with that perfection, and perhaps, some peace and quiet...that was far more seductive than anything. Well...anything other than a warm bed to sleep in.

  
She had just started a particularly wonderful fantasy about her nice warm study, full of tea and cookies, when a sudden, horrible, drawn out scream sounded from behind them. She startled, jerking on the reins of her horse, and feeling pathetically grateful that the old mare just snorted and jerked her head back, sounding more annoyed than anything. The guards also looked rather unconcerned, and Jane felt her hammering heart slowly start to settle...but the unease grew as they continued on into the darkness.

  
Nothing came from inside the carriage, other than laughter and voices, so she wondered if it'd just been a figment of her imagination...until it came again. Closer. And a whole lot louder. Four of the Guards looked nervous at that, gripping their swords awkwardly, and finally, the secretary opened his little window, looking annoyed, and motioned for one of the men closer.

  
"Rollins, what was that? It sounded like a rabbit scream."

  
"I think that's all it was, sir, but there are bears in these woods, and a few other large animals; all it takes is a sick bear to come out of hibernation, or an underfed one, to be a hazard."

  
"Very astute, Sergeant; have Rumlow and the others stay around us, you go scout and see if you can find the animal responsible. Don't try and kill it; don't risk your life. But we have to stop soon and at least warm up, so I want to be sure it's not following any more." The private snapped out a salute and turned to canter back down the road, vanishing in the gloom far sooner than Jane would have thought possible. She shivered, though, and not with the cold; there was something very wrong about that scream, and she very much wanted whatever it was to be dead. Very dead.

  
"Jane, are you quite alright?" She snapped out of her head with a blush, and nodded, giving him a weak smile as she tugged her scarf down a little over chapped lips.

  
"Yes sir, I am. I was just...a little scared by that scream. Please don't worry about me." His fatherly smile warmed her a little more; he was very much the opposite of her own selfish parent, and his kindness was a great comfort, especially on this trip. They were about four days shy of Belisaere, or so the guards had said, and the woods looming up around them were darkening fast.

  
"I understand; it's not anything you've ever been used to, my dear, and you are adjusting quite well. I promise, we will make camp soon, this time with a few big fires. There's a large grove we should be coming up on, if the map given to us is correct, and you needn't worry about anything the night may bring. Tomorrow we should make it to Qyrre and properly resupply; I've enough gold and silver to outfit us all comfortably. Can you manage another half hour?" She nodded, giving him a proper smile, and he reached out with one kid-gloved hand to pat her cheek, eyes twinkling.

  
"Atta girl." With that, he closed up the window and Jane forced herself to not focus on the cold, despite the growing shivers...and finally, /finally/, they found the grove, and pulled the carriage inside. Climbing down off of her horse was more than a little painful; bowlegged and aching, she brought her horse to the young man feeding and brushing them, taking her saddle bags with her as she sought out her surprisingly warm tent. It wasn't very big, but it was obviously meant for the cold weather, for it was buttressed against the larger command tent and stout.

  
She sealed herself inside with a happy sigh, laying out her clothes near the little brazier to warm as she changed only her socks and dress; she felt distinctly smelly and grubby, but a bath was as far off a luxury as summertime, and so she focused instead on replaiting her hair tightly, wrapping the braids around her head as both extra cushion for the night, and protection under her fur cap during the day. A little water from her canteen, a solid half hour of brushing, and she felt a little more human, wrapping up in the heavy flannel dress she'd brought with her.

  
Each of them carried their dinners for the time being, so she dug out her rations and warmed them with a little bit of weak tea, already drowsing over the food, settled as she was in the nest of blankets that was her bedroll, and reading one of the few books she'd been allowed to bring by the thin taper of her stolen candle. It was so peaceful, so quiet...when that scream came again. In the center of the camp.

 

* * *

 

He was shadow, dressed in the darkness and birthed from it, what skin he had that wasn't scarred pale as moonlight. He was shadow, but he was no Shade. Gleaming steel flashed through the darkness as he ran with the unending lope of a wolf, leaping, ducking, dodging the branches and fallen giants that littered his path...but now, he paused. The grove was quiet, the tents dark, yet there was...something there. Something that he knew, intimately...and _hated_. The shadow-man slipped between oak, thorn, ash, and rowan, his skin burning a little with the power they still held, though it was very clearly faded with time.

  
The center of the grove, the center of the tents, rather, held his quarry; a rippling, scintillating darkness, tinged with hellfire and despair, holding two captives in a small sea of bodies. Bodies that, even as he watched, were writhing as Dead souls reanimated them, rising shakily from the bloodied snow. But the two captives...they were alive, though the girl was unconscious, and the man...well.

  
He smirked, striding out from the darkness beneath an ancient oak as his master lightly scolded the Greater Dead beast, looking deeply annoyed. Pierce gave his servant a light finger wave and casual gesture; of course he was to take over the dirty work, and he did so gladly. He saluted his master as he came into the faint starlight, and gathered up the girl, scoffing that the beast hadn't even taken precautions to keep her warm...a fact that his master clearly agreed upon.

  
"You promised me that you would make this swift, Birenger. And that the girl would be unharmed." The beast gave an oddly disgusting shrug, too fluid for the shadow's tastes, and he focused on patching the girl up and wrapping her in blankets, keeping her warm. She was cold and shivering, and her braided hair bloody from a blow, her arms scratched and burned from the beast's touch. Without her knowledge and skill, they'd be right back at square one...and the shadow would _not_  allow that to happen.

"It isss not a problem, Sssecretary. You wanted thisss? You got it. I want my payment." The shadow had to admire the monster's gall; Pierce looked thoroughly annoyed, and waved at the Dead currently waiting, gnashing their jaws and generally pulling themselves together. They were a curiously quiet bunch, but he still kept a hand on the sword at his belt, far too familiar with their kind to trust them to remain so still.

  
"They, and your freedom at the hands of that incompetent fool of a necromancer are payment enough, Birenger. Do not ask for more; you've not earned it." The beast growled, raising a clawed hand to swipe at Pierce, when the white-hot stench of Free Magic filled the air, and the shadow smiled, though no humor touched his eyes. His master was far more powerful than he let on, and by the look on the beast's ugly face, he was faster in realizing it than most.

  
White smoke filled the space between monster and man, and the shadow watched in appreciation as the Greater Dead recoiled, fiery eyes wide and afraid in a way that not even the Abhorsen could instill, and the shadow felt his pride and no little smugness grow. Pierce's spell was three barked words that made the beast shudder, though it did not roar despite blackened skin peeling away, bone exposed, muscle torn...

  
"...My apologiesss, Sssecretary...pleassse, go in peacssse. The animalssss are not harmed; they ssshould ssserve to carry you to Belisssaere." He bowed, low enough to satisfy even the highest of offices, and Pierce's voice halted the magic, a smirk twisting his lips. Black ichor dripped from the wounds, but it did not tend to them; perhaps it couldn't, with the ferocity of the spells.

  
"That is most kind of you. I look forward to doing business with you again. And...I do believe that if you go back the way you came to the Stone, you may very well find the Abhorsen. The scouts were ever so kind enough to impart the worry that her injury may be more life-threatening than she let on..." The grin that split the beast's face now was positively vile, and Pierce parted ways with him, picking his way through the few remaining limbs and organs strewn about with all the calmness of a man out on a spring walk.

  
"My dear asset, thank you for ensuring the girl's survival; place her in the carriage, and hook up the horses. I fear we have a great deal of distance to travel before the King and his entourage come back this way." He bowed, mask cutting a little into his cheekbones, and set to work, ensuring the girl was warm before tackling the two exhausted drafthorses, hitching them to the carriage with haste.

 

He turned back to help his master load up the essentials, and felt a smirk curl his own lips as Pierce called on an ancient Free Magic spell, one that made the earth churn and swallow the remains and the tents...and another smoothed snow over it, rebuilding what had rested in the grove when they'd arrived earlier. It was a masterful exercise, and though he wasn't capable of casting the magic himself, the shadow looked on with pride, for _this_  was progress. _This_  was power...

  
As Pierce stepped into, and secured the carriage, he slapped the reins over the two geldings' rumps, and cracked the whip a few times to get them to set out on a good speed, ignoring their distress as he focused on the road, eyes ever going to the mountain range that, for decades, had been both his enemy...and his homing beacon. Somewhere, deep in a glacial valley, lay the key to his memory, to his past...and he would find it. Find it...and destroy it. That was what Pierce had discovered; only with the destruction of this...thing, would he be free.

  
And once he was free...He smiled again, eyes glinting with an unholy light as his dark hair streamed in the icy wind behind him. Nothing, not the petty King, not the Clayr, and not even the Charter, would stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning came calm and quiet and decidedly colder than it had been, and Tony finished packing up the last of the gear for the Scouts, a little worried about them heading back alone to the Wall. Behind him, he could practically feel the impatience and annoyance radiating from the Captain of the Paperwings. She was blond, blue-eyed, and tan like so many of her cousins and sisters, and it was obvious Felicia wasn't happy about her assignment. 

"This is a waste of time...all we need is the Abhorsen, the King, and the Royal Advisor! We don't need all these extra people..." 

"Excuse me?" Thor's angry rumble shut down all the complaining instantly, and Tony turned, lips twitching against a smile under his balaclava as he patted the flank of Maria's horse. "I understand the hassle that you have gone through in order to aid us in a swift journey north, but you will not insult my guards, the Scouts who added us at their own peril, and the two gentlemen who were kind enough to help dispatch the necromancer. And the Abhorsen-in-Waiting killed a Mordicant by herself during the healing of the Stone!" 

They all had the grace at least to blush and murmur apologies, and mollified, Thor finished packing the Royal Paperwing they'd towed with them. Loki was setting up several spells for all the Paperwings, protective ones, stabilizing ones, everything the mage could think of, and Tony sidled over, keeping his tone light. 

"Is there anything I can help with?" Green eyes glinted over at him, and a faint smile crinkled them, his own face protected in a handsome scarf and hood, his cloak belted in at his waist like all the rest. Like this, he was nothing more than a traveler...well, if travelers spouted master-level Charter spells with ease. 

"I am nearly done, but thank you. If you could check my work, however, I would most appreciate it; my concentration is not...well, all that great at the moment." Tony nodded, eyes tracing over the Charter marks carefully and checked every single spell. It didn't take long, of course; he was that quick, and Loki that skilled. Loki slipped into the passenger seat, and Thor came over, giving Tony a friendly, rather gentle clap on the shoulder for all his normal heavy-handedness. 

"Thank you both for looking over the Paperwings; we will be going into a blizzard or so the weather-seer among them says, and though I am not happy in the slightest by her attitude...I do believe her abilities." He sighed a little, rubbing his temple, and gave them both apologetic looks. "I am...deeply sorry for the offense they've caused you, Tony; they have grown more insular with time and isolation."

"Hey, you couldn't have known, and they /did/ bring the whole fleet out, so whether they want to or not, they are going to ferry us to the Glacier. If all else fails, I can join up with a merchant train; wouldn't be the first time, and it's a damn sight safer in numbers. I'm a good enough smith to earn my way back to Belisaere easily enough, so don't worry about me." Tony chuckled, patting the man's elbow and slipping into the passenger seat of one of the Wings. Still, Thor looked troubled; he glanced back at the nervous knot of Clayr, and sighed. 

"...I do not like the anger. Nor the distaste they all seem to share. It...speaks a warning to me, though I cannot say what that warning may be." He shook his head, blond braid tossed high for a moment, and Loki just gave him a tug to the Royal Wing, all reds and brilliant golds.

"Then we go to the Glacier and see what they See. It's no use worrying ourselves to death with it, now come sit down so I can prep for flight." Loki's glare sent his brother sheepishly into his seat, and finally, the Clayr dispersed to their respective wings, two to a very special one that was extra large. This was to accommodate Natasha's injuries; two pilots flew it while the passenger rested in the belly of the wing, protected on all sides and kept in a reinforced hammock. 

Darcy had made a point of being with the spotter Wing that ran with the big one, much to the Clayr’s displeasure who was piloting, but none of them were going to deny either of the Abhorsen's wishes. They might back talk to the King and Royals, and hold themselves in a higher status than most of the common folk, but they didn't dare anger the Abhorsen. Too many dark monsters rested in that library of theirs, and it was Natasha and Darcy who would come to their aid when the old seals broke. 

Bruce too was wrapped awkwardly in a Wing, looking more than a little worried, and Tony felt a touch of sympathy; it couldn't be easy to go from a simple village doctor to mixed up in the business of the Charter, the Clayr, the King, the Abhorsen...and on top of that, flying too. Now, Tony wasn't a half-bad pilot; he wasn't anything like his best friend back in the Capital, Colonel Rhodes of the Royal Squad (it was a stupid name, but Rhodey wouldn't change it in the slightest. Tony secretly had to admit that he didn't really mind.)

But none of them had a /feather/ on the Clayr. Often from the times they were younglings, a special few were singled out and rigorously trained in the Charter spells of the wind, the snow, the Wings themselves, and at eighteen, they would embark on their first solo flights off the top of the Glacier. All of these young women looked to be in their twenties, though being Clayr, that was also deceptive. The Scouts gave their goodbyes and headed off down the road, cantering at a smart clip in a diamond formation, and the Clayr Captain settled into her Paperwing, and raised a closed fist. 

At her signal, a half-dozen whistles rang out the same note, and their Wings leapt into the air, the Captain taking point as they kited up into the clouds, heading north. It never ceased to amaze him every time he flew, how effortlessly it all seemed. It wasn’t, of course; Tony had been flying with Rhodey enough times to know that, and he knew the Charter magic quite well, having helped build most of the current Paperwings for the King...but still, he loved every bit of it. 

The ground shrank to a snowy white blur interspersed with dark swathes of trees and waterways, and he marveled at the land below them. _So many years since the Interregnum, and we’re still only a fraction of what the Old Kingdom once was..._

Tony was in place behind one of the lieutenants himself, all of them wrapped up warm against the freezing temperatures. She was a skilled pilot just the like the rest, but Tony couldn’t help a growing sense of unease. The winds were growing colder as they reached cruising height, and Tony kept glancing into the darkening clouds, feeling his nerves and Death-sense grow more and more tense. Something was profoundly _wrong_. And the Clayr knew it too; his pilot glanced back, her blue eyes serious. 

“Wallmaker, can you guard our backs? We’ll take the rearguard!” She shouted back at him, and Tony blinked, eyes huge, before shaking off his shock and nodding, turning in his seat. The Charter was at his lips, glowing warm as the marks flowed up, and not a moment too soon, because he spotted a darker cloud amidst the gray ones...and his Death sense made him want to vomit. _Gore crows...and damn strong ones. There’s a necromancer down there that Tasha and Darcy didn’t get..._

He pursed his lips and let out a vibrant string of whistles, laden with a heavy chain of Charter magic, and rather than flinging it into the winds in the vain hope it might hit the crows, he decided to weave it into the magic of the Paperwings around him. They, like the Clayr, recognized his bloodline and eagerly took to the magic, and Tony’s whistles became the counterpoint to the flight magic, weaving a powerful protection all around the Wing as they soared further north. 

_Wallmaker...I’m still amazed anyone remembers us. Mom said Granddad Sameth and Grandma Ferin hardly lived to have her and her sister, when Aunt Ellimere had a whole slew of kids early on and died a ripe old age..._ The memories were few enough; his mother had died young, and he’d lived with his father, traveling between Belisaere and Ancelstierre most of his life...But this was one aspect of the Old Kingdom he didn’t miss. 

He paused only to sip some water before pressing his whistle back into action; somewhere to the left, half hidden in the growing snow, Loki was helping, chanting old protective spells to weave into the larger one Tony had started. The magic hadn’t run strong in most of the Royal family; Sabriel, of course, was skilled, as was Touchstone, their great grandparents, but Ellimere had had only a passing strength in it, and her daughters and sons varied as well. Frigga had been the strongest, and her skill had been passed to Loki, who in turn had passed it to his own three children before their deaths…

Now, the mage was clearly putting all his grief and sorrow into preserving their lives, and the Charter grew brighter around them. Just then, the clouds parted, just a little, and Tony felt his heart rise; they weren’t far from the glacier now, the twin peaks rose high above the clouds, glittering with the noon-day sun...but they had to survive the blizzard first. It was harder now, to whistle, to fly; the Paperwings shuddered with the onslaught of ice and snow that pounded down. This high up, most of the snow was sharper, harder, heavier; it lightened some as it fell to the earth below, melting with the warmer temperatures. 

Tony glanced back now, praying that perhaps, just perhaps, the Gore crow might have been torn to bits by the heavy snow; certainly they were struggling, and they had significantly better vessels to fly in. What he saw made his heart drop like a stone, and he shouted his fear, hoping to all the gods that the pilot heard. 

“THEY’RE ABOVE US! LOOK OUT!” She heard his bellow a hair too late, or perhaps he was just too slow; a huge crow, made from the body of an eagle, slammed into her and sent their wing careening to the right, straight into Darcy and her pilot, and all four humans screamed in the mess as the Gore crows all dove to attack. Tony watched in horror, frantically trying to draw his sword with numb fingers and terrible nausea from the dying Paperwing’s frantic flight, as they all were battered and forced out of the sky. 

Loki was shouting, casting fire spells left and right as Thor fought to keep them airborne, while Natasha and her pilots fell screaming through the clouds. Bruce and his pilot had vanished into the blizzard, and Darcy’s pilot was killed brutally, their Paperwing dropping like a stone. Tony’s pilot was dead now too, and he desperately tried to whistle the Wing back up, beating off the crows with tears in his eyes as he fought...but it was to no avail. 

They plummeted out of the sky, and the last sight he saw before the gravity grew too much, were the circling crows diving towards the last spot he’d seen Darcy fall...and then...he knew nothing.

* * *

_ “Five Great Charters knit the land. _

_ Together linked, hand in hand. _

_ One in the people who wear the Crown. _

_ Two in the folk who keep the Dead down. _

_ Three and Five became stone and mortar. _

_ Four sees all in frozen water…” _

Clint smiled a little as he listened to Wanda quietly sing the old Charter song, her voice soft as they trotted down the road towards Sindle, the kids riding double in front of him while Clint kept an eye on the lowland forest around them. Things had been rather quiet all morning, and Clint was feeling a bit more relaxed now, though his bow lay over the pony’s neck, an arrow in his fingers idle, but ready to draw if he needed to. Sindle was a thriving market town even in the winter now, thanks to its location west of Belisaere, and he hoped to commandeer a Paperwing there.

The knack of relearning the lost arts of making Paperwings had started with Sameth, painstakingly learned from the Clayr’s Library over most of his short life with his wife, Ferin, and his daughter Maria...and then onward to Maria’s son, Tony. Clint hadn’t met him, but he’d grown up in and around the library, and he’d heard all the stories about Sameth and Ellimere and Sabriel and Touchstone...and now, they were commonplace across the whole of the Old Kingdom. And if he was right, Sindle held not only the local brigade of Wings, but a good friend of his...and Sam would lend him a Wing without question, especially when he said he was going home. 

“Clint?” Pietro had guided their pony carefully back, letting her rest as they ambled down the road in the noon sun, and he tugged down his balaclava to smile at the kids. They’d taken to this so so well...but given how they’d survived the frozen night when he’d found them, he wasn’t surprised. 

“Yeah kiddo?”   


“You said we’re going to Sindle, right? Are...are you going to leave us there?” Both looked worried, and Pietro pushed his silvery-blond hair out of his face, sky-blue eyes meeting Clint’s own tired blue-hazel...and the older man only shook his head and smiled.

“Nah, kids, you’re comin’ with me to the Clayr. I promised I’d get you both someplace safe, and there’s no safer a place than the Glacier.” 

“...How do you know this?”

“We aren’t going to back to being called monsters!” He soothed them both, humming an old Charter lullaby, and both quieted, still nervous, still scared.

“I know this because I grew up in the Glacier. I’m Clayr myself.”

“But...you’re a man!”

“I am. We’re incredibly rare, and no, we’re never as powerful as our sisters, cousins, mothers, and aunts. There’s only been...something like four born in the last hundred years, and we’re rarely kept in the Glacier. I was for some time when I was very young...then again when I was your ages, because my mother Saw my brother and I being abused and neglected, and sent for us to be returned to her. My brother left a few years later, but I spent several years there working for the Paperwing crew.” Both looked awestruck, but Wanda’s brow furrowed a little bit.

“...What’s a Paperwing?” Clint blinked, then smiled, chuckling a little. 

“When we reach Sindle, we’ll go talk to my friend, and I’ll show you what Paperwings are. They’re...something really special. While we’re on the subject of things...do you kids have any other questions about things? I know I’ve told you about necromancers, the Dead, and the Abhorsen, and clarified things about the Royals…”

“...Will...they be mad that we know Free Magic?”

“...well, we’re not gonna advertise it, I’ll be honest, but the people we’ll be talking to will be safe to talk to when we’re in private.” Wanda shivered, and Clint knew it wasn’t the cold; she was terrified of her power...and not even the fresh, new Charter marks on their foreheads were enough to give them comfort. And Clint just couldn’t blame her in the slightest. “I know this is hard. Hard and scary and overwhelming. But I’m not leaving, I promise; if you two wanna stay with me, I’ll make sure neither one of you has to worry about things. Hell, once we get done at the Glacier, we can just go find a nice little place in Belisaere; I know enough people, we can make things work.”

“...Thank you. Pietro? What do you think?” He sighed, shifting a little, and pulled down his scarf just enough to speak, huddling more in the over-sized men’s coat he was wrapped in.

“Whatever you want, little sister, but please tell me we’ll be warm soon?” Clint laughed at that, and chuckling, he led them into the outer farms around Sindle. It was another hour before they reached the town, and he led the kids to the main guardpost, where both the Royal and Auxiliary Wings were stationed, a dozen in red and gold, the rest in blue with a touch of gold on the edges. He bustled them into the main eating hall, then took care of the ponies, grabbed the packs, and headed inside. 

Both kids looked nervous, and Clint took over the situation like the Captain he’d once been...and before they knew it, they were getting settled in a quiet room with a table groaning with food, hot cider and cocoa to thaw around...and the Major in charge of the Auxiliary wing. He came in with friendly eyes and a warm smile, and shook both kids’ hands before hugging Clint, who in turn hugged him back, laughing. 

“Sam! Thanks for meeting us, I’m sorry for such short notice. Are you able to sit with us?”

“Clint, it’s never a problem, and yes I can. Kids, welcome to Sindle.” They both thanked him softly, eating now, and Sam only smiled, then turned to Clint, who was halfway through his own plate shamelessly. “Alright, Barton, what’s up?” Clint swallowed the half a roll he’d just bitten into, and gave Sam a grin.

“I need to get back home, and I’d like to borrow one of the large Wings.” Sam blinked, and raised an eyebrow.

“...I thought you swore you’d never go back.” He huffed out a sigh, regret in his voice as he acknowledged that.

“I did. And I did mean it. But...it’s Pepper calling me back, and she was one of my few friends...and there’s talk apparently of calling all the Clayr for the Sight.” That eyebrow went higher, and Clint just smiled sadly. The numbers in the Clayr had grown over the last many decades, though not hugely, and a seventy-two sixty grouping was the largest current possible formation of the Clayr’s Sight. That included himself, however most disliked it, and he sighed a little bit, staring into his drink.

“...this is sounding like the time of Orannis.”

“Yeah. I know. Something’s got them spooked; something that I’m willing to bet has to do with what I’ve Seen for years. But in any case, I’ve got something for you to keep if you’ll let me borrow the Wing.” He rummaged through his pack, and pulled out a small bag, silk, padded and quilted, and as he loosened the string, the sharp ears and pointed snout of a small, black soapstone dog poked out of it, followed by a slim body on a small square base. Sam paused in his dinner, and carefully, reverently took it, cradled in the nest of silk and padding. 

“...Is this…”

“Yup.”

“You mean…”

“Yup.”

“...how long-”

“Ten years. Since I was a kid myself...I found her in one of the old Librarian suites I was helping Peggy clean out. Someone had tossed her into a mess of old artifacts and just...left her; it couldn’t have been Lirael, supposedly the Dog was buried with her.”

“And Nicholas would never have done that to his beloved. My guess it was probably the aunt...Kirith, right? ...but we’ll never know, will we?”

“No...They never had children, only Sameth and Ellimere did, and Sameth only had two, while Ellimere had seven. My guess is it was a combination of things...but as it stands, there’s no one else I would trust the Dog to, and if things go upside-down for us, you’ve got a way to get some compensation for the lost Wing. Kirith may not have wanted it found, but if the stories of the Dog are true, then it’ll always be found when it needs to.”

“Be that as it may...You three matter too, you know.” Clint smiled a little, though it was tighter and a little forced now, and just shrugged, and Sam tucked it back in its bag, then into his own uniform for safekeeping. “I’m serious...I’ll take it, but you’ve got the wing, and my best supplies. Do you need a refresher on the marks?”

“Probably, if you have a book still? I don’t like risking it, but we’re a bit time-crunched, and Emma’s not the most forgiving for those who’re tardy.” Sam winced at that, and Clint relaxed, his eyes softening. “Thanks Sam; I owe you a keg of Ol’ Logan’s Stout.”

“Yes you do, and another one for my crew. C’mon; you three can bunk in my rooms tonight, I’ll sleep with the guard.”

“Oh, Major Wilson, you shouldn’t do that…”

“Please, we can sleep by the fire…” Both kids protested, looking so nervous, and Sam just smiled, shaking his head. 

“Nah, you three have been on the road for a few days, right? My men and I mostly do patrol and yard exercises, and the men eat free at the pubs because we pay a stipend every month. Rest, I’ll put together the other bed for Clint.”

“...or just throw me the stuff and I can sleep on the couch?” Sam shrugged and grinned at that, and the two men bustled the kids off to baths and bed, neither really protesting because Clint might be used to riding, but they definitely weren’t, and the hot baths drawn in the bathhouse were a welcome sight for all three of them. The room was divided perfectly between a male and female side, much to Wanda’s relief, and they all three joined the guards washing up. This guard house was perfectly split between the sexes, and Sam and his Lieutenant, nicknamed ‘Valkyrie’, explained how they chose to keep it that way in order to maintain a healthy balance. 

In fact, their positions were actually more informal than anything; they switched every two years in order to give one another a break from acting as the figurehead of the Guard stationed here. Clint knew this already, but Pietro was fascinated as Sam laid out the way they all worked together, and judging from the women’s side and Wanda’s awed exclamations, the same thing was happening over there. 

In truth...it hurt his heart a little to hear those kids sound so in shock over things that he, that most of the Old Kingdom had mostly taken for granted for several decades now. But then...well, there were a lot of mountain villages and steppe tribes who went heavily on either side of the line, and didn’t approve of the middle ground the kingdom had taken. Mostly, it had been out of desperation; Touchstone I had been the first king in over two hundred years, and he and the Abhorsen had spent most of their adult lives bearing the burden of rebuilding what was essentially a dying kingdom, battling creatures and Dead and necromancers....

Rebuilding the Charter Stones, the Great Stones, everything...Orannis and Chlorr of the Mask, especially. And still, no one was completely happy. But...it was enough for now, it was a good point to grow on, and he was hoping, sincerely, that things would start looking up...not only for these kids...But for himself too. But...that was a thought for another day, and as they left the hot spring baths, donning the comfortable, clean clothes from their packs and gathering up Wanda, he said a little prayer in thanks that they’d made it this far safely. 

Another prayer went up for the following day, when he’d take to the skies again after almost a year, and when Sam had handed over the small book without a word, Clint nodded, and thanked him, then shut the door. The kids were already drowsing off, and he turned down the lamps, retreating to the fireplace and the old, comfortable couch...a breath, one single mark, and a Charter light flared softly to life, very small, illuminating the pages for him to study. It would be a long night indeed, but one well spent. Now, to reclaim what he’d once known by heart…

* * *

“Time to wake, Wallmaker.” The growling voice in Tony’s ear was unusual, and the metallic tang of Free Magic filled his mouth, making his whole body heave...and he came to with a gasp and retching out his guts, clinging to the side of the ruined paperwing. All around him, the light was dim, and finally, he was able to drag himself up out of the Wing, pausing to stare, horrified, at the sight around him. Most of the Wings had crashed around him, burning dimly in the snow and brush, and Tony dragged himself upright...just in time for a small, furry blur to dart up his shoulder.

“Shit shit shit!” A hiss sounded, and claws dug into his armor, sharp enough to prick through the boiled leather...and Tony found himself face to face with none other than Mogget. The creature’s eyes were narrowed, and Tony gulped. “...I’m sorry.”

“...It’s understandable. There are...no survivors among the Clayr, but the Abhorsen is resting nearby, along with the King. I need you to keep your wits, and join them.”

“...I can do that. How badly injured is everyone?” Mogget sighed, just a little, and Tony swallowed, leaning over with a wince to gather up the weapons from the Wing. “...That bad. Okay...okay. Medical kits...thank the gods, we’ve got those...Is the Prince with them too?”

“I haven’t found Prince Loki yet, nor the doctor or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting…” Now Mogget’s hissing voice grew worried, and Tony glanced up at the cat, meeting those eerie green eyes. Mogget wasn’t actually named Mogget, of course; he was Yrael, the lost Eighth Shiner, who had chosen no side in the first battle and had been enslaved to serve the Seven ever since. His forms had varied, had changed over the many millennia...but according to Natasha, once he’d been freed in the battle to subdue Orannis again, he had, somewhat surprisingly, decided to return to life as a cat.

Or cat-creature; Mogget leapt off Tony’s shoulder and in a fraction of a second, he was in the shape of a massive ice-lion, putting out a blaze that had flared suddenly. His red collar had been destroyed in the battle sixty years ago, and ever since, he’d been known to vanish for months, years at a time. He still served the Abhorsen when he wanted; Mogget had always been fond of Darcy and Natasha in particular, and Tony could remember the few times he’d visited as a child, entranced as Mogget had sat before him, teaching him the history, all the little things the cat had discovered in his long life. 

“...We’ll find her, I promise. Dead or alive.”

“...I pray we do, Wallmaker. As it stands, you’ll need my help to get to Sindle; you were flung far to the west, into the Great Forest; we’re a week’s ride on horseback easily.”

“...And on foot?”

“A fortnight, if we’re lucky. As it stands, I...have some contacts that will be coming to meet us, but it’ll take a day or more to brave the forest; for now, we shall rest and heal.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll get to work incinerating the bodies…”

“...That can wait for a bit. None will disturb the Dead here. Come with me, please.” The creature’s voice held a note of urgency that Tony had never heard before, and he shouldered his packs, following Mogget through the sparse forest. At least it really was the Great Forest; the first growth allowed them to move easily between the trees, with very little in the way of brush, just centuries of leaf litter and windfalls carpeting the ground under the snow. In fact, the only things in the way were the enormous, ancient root systems.

But, Mogget seemed to take pity on Tony, and helped him navigate the best path, the pines and tree above so dense that they let very little moonlight through. But Mogget’s glow, and Tony’s own weak Charter light helped, and finally, he was able to limp down into the gully where Thor and Natasha were resting. The King was badly bruised, with a fresh cut over his right eye, and Tasha...He immediately hurried over to her, white-faced and looking almost dead, and relaxed when the glow of a Charter healing spell shimmered over him.

“Thank the Shiners…”

“She’ll be alright, with time; friend Yrael, thank you for your bravery and your strength; had you not carried her, I fear the worst might have happened.” Mogget bowed his head to the king, looking far more respectful now (but then, it was hard not to be impressed by the regality of Thor), and curled up against Natasha’s side, gently licking her cheek when she sighed in her sleep and nestled closer to his warmth. He was still the size of a mountain cat, if a hundred times more furry.

“It...well, it’s no longer a duty. But it was a deed I was willing to do without expectation of repayment; Natalial and Darciel have always been good to me, and I am fond of them. In fact, I find that I enjoy this generation the most out of all those I’ve lived with.” Tony cracked a smile at that, despite how much it made his jaw hurt.

“That’s high praise indeed. Well, we need food, and there’s not much in the packs. Thor, feel up to a bit of night fishing?” The King hid a grin as Mogget’s green eyes brightened, and he bowed to the cat-creature.

“If it pleases our savior, I feel that would be a delicious end to our night.”

“...bring me a string of my own, and I’ll get us out of here /much/ faster. It won’t be...pleasant, but it can be done.” Tony shared a glance with Thor, who nodded, and he gave his agreement.

“Fair enough, Mogget. I’ll get some strings made up here, if Thor can break the ice of that stream a little bit down the way?”

“Easily enough done, would you care to make a...sort of net instead?”

“....That would be a lot easier. Alright, net. I’ve got the stuff to make a proper one, not merely a Charter magic one, so that’ll be easy enough.” With that, Tony set to work digging all the string out, and Thor heaved himself up. The stream was well within sight, and first, the King set up a diamond of protection around their makeshift camp, much to Mogget’s approval. Then, the sword he carried at his side became an icebreaker; he inwardly winced, but it was all they had right now, and he was cold, tired, and hungry, and worried sick for his friends and his brother.

Once the hole was big enough, still inside the diamond, he turned back, smiling as Tony wove his literal magic into the makeshift net. It wasn’t glamorous, but it looked sturdy and strong, and that was enough for Thor. Mogget too looked approving, and both man and cat watched as Tony finished the spell, then took it to the stream. A makeshift, heavy branch thrust between some rocks, and he set it in the stream, coming back and chafing his hands together to warm up a little more; Thor added another log to the fire without comment. 

“Thanks…”

“No, thank you. It’s a relief to have someone so skilled with the magic...I am good, and Loki, of course, is amazing. But you’re a class all your own.”

“He ought to be; he’s a Wallmaker. Sameth’s get, in fact.” Thor blinked, absolutely stupefied, and Tony sighed.

“...Pretty much that. My mother was the same, dad was a traveling engineer who was astounded by the power of the Charter, but frustrated because he was only ever able to use a fraction of it. I was playing with Charter marks in the cradle.”

“...Gods, and all the projects you’ve helped us with, rebuilding the Wall itself…”

“All of it. My mother did a great deal of the work while I was in school and was helping my father, but asked me, when she passed, to take over the stewardship. I’ve done my best, but...now, I can finally focus on the Old Kingdom. If we survive this.”

“We shall.” Mogget looked determined, green eyes glowing, and Tony gave him a wry, tired smile.

“Forgive my doubts. There’s...been a lot going on.”

“All is forgiven; I can hardly fault you for having doubts after crash that size, and your run in with the Dead before. Let us rest a little; the net is hardly started to fill, and it will be a long night. I shall keep watch, you two are in need of rest the most.” Thor nodded, solemn and weary, and opened his cloak to Tony. Tony took it without a word of complaint; it was too damned cold to turn down even a bit of an offer of warmth right now, and Tony Stark was no man’s fool. That, and Thor was rather toasty, so the smaller man shamelessly leaned into him.

“...I see you’ve discovered Loki’s favorite reason for hugs in the winter.” He murmured with a wry smile, and Tony just shrugged with an equally shameless grin.

“You’re quite nice and warm, big guy, and I’m not stupid enough to let my ego get in the way of my self-preservation. Besides, I do this to Rhodey all the time.” 

“I often wondered who Colonel Rhodes’ friend was; that does answer my question. Are you comfortable?”

“Yup.”

“Good, I am as well....Thank you, Tony…” With that, Thor drifted off, chin to his chest, and Tony followed suit, his eyes already heavy from the long, long past few days. His last sight was that of Mogget, sitting out in front of them, but not the cat-creature of old...no, this was Yrael. But the Eighth Shiner only smiled, green eyes glowing ever brighter, and turned back to watch the forest, a being consumed in white fire...or creating it. But there was...peace emanating from it, and Tony dropped off, relaxing at long last.

“ _ **...Sleep well, Kingmaker, Wallmaker, Abhorsen. The world still needs you. I...still need you.**_ ”

* * *

The warmth, and steady swaying, woke Jane late in the day, and she let out a rough groan, rolling over on the plush seat...and suddenly sitting bolt upright, looking around frantically. She was in the carriage...she was /definitely/ in the carriage, and there was a bundle across the little aisle from her, groaning as well. But they were the only ones in here; none of the officials that had loaded up at the Wall were in here, and peeking out the window...Jane felt a chill go down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Son of a _bitch_ , I’m gonna stab the asshole who took me down…” The bundle...no, woman shoved off the blanket and sat up too, dark curls askew and eyes angry, and Jane felt her heart sink a little more. 

“...Please don’t stab me?” The girl...no, young woman, she was definitely in her twenties, same as Jane, whipped her head around, dark eyes glaring at her….but they softened, just a little.

“...I won’t stab you. They took my sword and bells anyway, so I’m limited to the Charter. You kidnapped too?”

“...I...don’t know what I am now. I was following this carriage on horseback up till last night…” Jane swallowed as the girl’s eyes narrowed...and blinked when suddenly, she stuck out a hand for a handshake. Tentative, Jane shook hands with her.

“Sorry for the suspicions; I don’t really like waking up unarmed and alone, and in something that’s Free Magic-run. I’m Darciel, Darcy for short.”

“J-Jane Foster...What do you mean, Free Magic? I’ve only heard of the Charter magic religion.” Darcy cocked her head, curious, and suddenly snapped her fingers.

“You’re from beyond the Wall to the South! No wonder you’re so confused...Charter magic...isn’t a religion. It’s magic; Free magic is similar, but it’s raw, untamed magic that corrupts, and Charter Mages as a rule don’t use it. I know it because...I have to, but I rarely use it. No, this thing is moving and warmed by a chained Free magic spell.” Confused, Jane watched as Darcy made a thorough, careful inspection of the carriage, and glancing up at the light, Jane noticed Darcy doing the same. 

“...That’s what it is. A chained creature, not merely a spell. That light isn’t a light; it’s a bottle-prison for a Free magic beast. What, I don’t know; my sister would, but right now, that’s not important. It’s caged, so we’re safe from it. Now then...let’s try those doors.” Darcy took her time, fingers trailing over the door frames and locks, brows furrowed, and Jane slowly followed her, nervous. 

“This is insane…”

“I’m sure it is to you...hell, it kinda is to me too. So, Jane...how long have you been in the Old Kingdom?”

“A week, maybe more? I don’t honestly know right now...We came up here to go to Belisaere…” Darcy looked up at that, confused, and peeked out the window again, shaking her head as she sat back.

“...Well, I don’t know what the hell your troup is doing, but we’re about four days /west/ of Belisaere, and we’re continuing west. Belisaere is in the northeastern corner of the country...and I think we just left the Great Forest.”

“...where can we go then? How big is the Old Kingdom?!”

“Bigger than a lot of people realize. From the Great Forest is a vast plain land and desert; from there, it moves into more mountains, a huge sprawling steppe, and a vast canyon far to the north...and beyond that, no one really knows. The only people who’ve ever gone that far north are dead now, long dead, and they barely survived the trip. We don’t go there, except to check the Charter Stones; even then, I’ve only made the trip once.”

“Oh god…” Jane’s pulse spiked, and she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the anxiety really set in now.

“You’d better be praying; this reeks of Death and Free magic, and deceit, and I’ve no doubt whoever’s driving this rig has my bells and sword.”

“...you mentioned bells before, why are they so important?” Darcy blinked a little, thoroughly thrown off by the question, and Jane flushed with embarrassment...but the younger woman pursed her lips and sighed. 

“Right, I keep forgetting you’re Ancelstierran. The bells are the seven bells of a necromancer...except I’m something a little better than a necromancer.” Jane felt her jaw drop a little in shock, and couldn’t help blurting out her real thoughts.

“Necromancy?!”

“It’s a big thing here. I’m the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, my older sister is the Abhorsen...we...we lay the Dead to rest, and we battle necromancy. It’s run rampant in the kingdom for well over four centuries, and we’ve been battling for almost as long to try and keep it in check. It’s hard, though; there’s only ever two of us, and once one falls, the other takes over as the Abhorsen in truth. And tries to sire a child to pass on the legacy. Occasionally, there’s a cousin who can take up the mantle, or sibling; we’re like that, as were Sabriel and Lirael.”

“...I know those names…” She must have read them before, probably when she was researching the histories of the Old Kingdom, but somehow, she remembered them from other places too...

“You should. Sabriel was known as the Abhorsen Queen; she ruled alongside her husband Touchstone, and Lirael was a half-Clayr, half-Abhorsen Rembrancer who spent many years going back and forth between Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom with her husband Nicholas Sayre. Both became Abhorsen in their time. Our mother was Abhorsen before us, and her father was before her. All of the bloodlines are pretty entangled, I gotta say, except for the Clayr and us; for the Clayr, it’s mostly just cousins of cousins.”

“I...am so very confused.” Darcy winced and sighed again, running her fingers through her curls. She looked tired, worn, and obviously a little more worse for wear; her armor was battered and the chainmail under her filthy blue surcoat with the silvery keys was dulled, with a few spots hastily repaired. Jane was still a bit in awe of her outfit; Darcy looked like a warrior, moved like a warrior...for all that she had the sweet face of a school girl.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It’s...a bit of a mess, but basically, there’s four main bloodlines in the Kingdom, and they all date back to the origin of the world as we know it, so the lore goes. There’s the royal line, the Wallmakers, which are even rarer than us, there’s only one in every generation now, the Abhorsen line, the Clayr...There’s even a little song for it. And it sounds crazy, I know it does, but it’s all real. It’s...we’re losing the fight, and now that I’m trapped here…”

“...Should we try to escape?” Jane felt a surge of pride at the smile Darcy gave her, but that surge died quickly when the younger woman shook her head.

“We’re sealed into the carriage; our captor isn’t taking any chances. What we can do is be quiet, gather information, and find an opening; But if we do that, we’re going to have to work together.”

“Maybe they don’t know who you are?”

“They do. Even without the bells, the blade would have told them who I was; it’s an ancient Abhorsen blade thrice-blessed with Charter magic. But the bells themselves are a dead giveaway; they’re also Charter-blessed, and no necromancer would have blessed bells. So...we need to play the waiting game. It’s not going to be easy; they will probably interrogate and most likely torture me.”

“Oh god…”

“Don’t panic. Okay? Don’t panic, don’t freak out too much. If we can’t escape with our lives...well.”

“What do you mean, if we can’t escape with our lives! Where in God’s name can we go?!” Darcy met her eyes, brown to blue, and held her gaze, unwavering and firm.

“We do into Death, and we escape there. It’s the only way; if we can get to the Ninth Gate, he can’t use our souls to reanimate our bodies, and trick my friends. It wouldn’t fool Tasha; she’d Send us in a heartbeat, but the others...the others don’t have a Death sense like we do. Well, Tony does, but he’s the oddball. But yes. We’d flee into Death, and to the Ninth Gate; once we’re there, we’re safe.”

“B-but…”

“I know it sounds extreme. I know it does. But I can’t think of any other way to do it; if we can’t escape in life, Death is the surest path.”

“I...but I don’t want to die…” Darcy gave her a sad, sweet look, and reached over to pat her hand. 

“I don’t either. But I also don’t fear Death; I’ve walked too long in its waters to be afraid. We’ll be okay, even if we do have to die. I promise. But I also promise to do all I can to keep us alive; I wanna see my sister again.” Jane held her hand in her own, and shivered all over, fighting back tears of fear, worry, sadness...and Darcy held on tight too, sword-callouses somehow more comforting than any conciliatory pat. They might have been in a bad, bad situation...but they weren’t alone. And that, she felt, made all the difference. 

* * *

It was the cold that woke him...cold, and a sudden, unstoppable nausea that left Loki retching over the side of the rock he was clinging to, and the prince dragged himself upright, panting as he looked around carefully, aching head pounding...but no. He was alone; the wreckage of the Paperwing was scattered further up the slope, and even through the swirling snow, he could make out the path his body had cut sliding down. His robes and armor were sopping wet, and he started chuffing his arms, teeth chattering almost on command.

He had no idea where he was, or even where he could go, but he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he couldn’t stay there. Teeth still chattering, he barked out a series of Charter spells, putting his will behind the magic where his energy might fail, and warmth swirled around him, taking the edge off the cold, as the second spell started drying his clothes. The third was a globe of light, a beautiful soft green, and it was this that he followed now. 

Loki rarely used the pathfinding spell, since he rarely spent his time out of the palace, but he never had forgotten it; it was too useful a spell to merely forget, for it didn’t just find a path...it found a path to /people/. Specifically, whatever people he was looking for. In this case, he’d created it to find the Clayr; he knew roughly where the entrance to the Traveler’s hall was, but in this snow, he had no idea what direction he was heading, and the ball of light should take him there easily. 

If he wasn’t on the far side of the mountain…

Loki shook off those thoughts, and continued on, doing his best to avoid the snow by walking on the bare rock faces when he could. It agonizingly slow going, but not for the first time, the prince was grateful to his brother’s insistence that they always carry food and water with them, even in the castle. That preparation stood him in good stead now; out of one pocket came a packet of jerky to chew on, to soothe his angry stomach, and the water in his pouch was icy cool and refreshing even in the cold.

_ Thor and the others must be further down the mountain, possibly to the forest, or Sindle? Gods, I hope for Sindle; the winds flung us far once the Gore crows struck, and I know Thor tumbled out of the Paperwing into Natasha's wing, desperate to try and save her...And Tony, he was trying so hard to fight them off and whistle up the wings, but even his strength wasn't enough...and Darcy, and the doctor...Oh, Gods above, please let them all be alright...please let them be safe. I cannot bear to lose anyone _ else...

Hours passed in silence but for the wind, but the ball led him unerringly down the slopes, and Loki began to relax as he came across more and more scrub, then pine trees, then taller, stronger pines and spruces. Here, the wind died to nearly nothing, with only the snow falling, and while the snow was deeper under the trees, it was warmer here too. He wanted to rest, to take a moment, but he knew, he /knew/ he dared not to; for all he might have loved winter and the cold, that same cold would kill him in a few hours if he laid down to rest. 

He had a few ways to create a fire, but all the wood around him was wet from snow; it would take a few hours to drive out the damp enough to set up a good enough fire, and he hadn’t the strength now to do that. So, he carried on; the beaten down path of the trail he’d come to was easier to walk along now. Finally, _finally_ , he came to a road, and following it and the ball, he was relieved to see the entry arch to the Traveler’s Grounds and Hall. 

The Grounds were a veritable marketplace; here, the traders of the Old Kingdom always made a stop to trade and sell their wares, and so it was well built, well guarded, and welcoming to any who wished a cheap, delicious meal. The Hall inside the Glacier was a little ways up, but not too far, and Loki let out a sigh of relief, dismissing the spell and limping his way into the market, and through there, to the Hall itself. He hoped, and prayed, that Thor and the others might be waiting for him; surely the King and Abhorsen and the Wallmaker had made it to the Glacier, and were even now discussing what might be done…

But the solemn faces of two imposing Clayr guards appearing before him made his blood run cold, and behind them, tall, sad, and beautiful, was another Clayr...and this one was clearly in charge. _No…no no no, please no..._ Despair welled up inside him as he fell to his knees, tears streaming hot down his face, and the woman leading the guards gave him the saddest smile.

“My lord Loki, please, come with us? We must discuss the King’s disappearance…” 


	4. Chapter 4

_ Steve... _

He turned, eyes confused, brow furrowed with worry, and Steve Rogers surveyed the dark woods with more than a little apprehension. He’d woken up here in the snow, but he wasn’t cold...he’d been here for hours, but light still hadn’t come. And he’d been walking for nearly all of that time, and the trees still looked so much the same. It was like the fever from when he was a kid, dark dreams he couldn’t escape…

But these dreams were far more vivid and real, and he felt real, felt like he was lucid. Even the trees themselves, with gnarled rough bark and grasping feathery boughs, he could touch and rub his hands over. But the darkness never lightened, and the path only kept twisting...but Steve Rogers couldn’t bear the thought of just stopping. He’d spent too many years stopping and starting, almost dying, almost _wanting_  to die from the illness...he couldn’t bear stopping again.

The memories haunted him here, and even though he didn’t know where he was, what was happening, or even when he was...he knew that time was passing. He could feel it in his bones, an ache that ebbed and flowed as he walked, knew that the occasional chill down his spine had to mean _something_...after all, it was an old tale of someone walking over your grave...But, all the same, he never aged, never wearied, never hungered. It was an attainment of physical perfection...the same perfection that Commander Pierce had been looking for all along.

But it was lonesome here, even with the whisper of the wind, and Steve took to singing to himself, softly, for though he did not tire in this eldritch world, he did miss the sound of voices, any voices. So he pulled out old ditties and songs from when he was a boy, ballads of love and loss from his mother’s side, her roots running deep in the ocean up north. It helped to take his time to remember them, poring over the lyrics and improvising what he couldn’t recall…

And that was how he passed the journey, singing, soft and sweet and strong, and so very alone…

Until the day he heard another voice match his, dark and deep and mournful, though he couldn’t find him, could do nothing more than follow that voice.

“BUCKY!”

* * *

Dawn came bright and fiercely cold, and Clint finished buckling in his hunting gear, all of it finally cleaned and reconditioned as a gift from Sam. He certainly didn’t mind in the slightest, and figured he could pay it back by sending Sam and his troops some of the best cooking from the Clayr kitchens when he came back. And he would come back; as much as he loved the capital, he was already a little in love with Sindle, and he had a feeling the kids wouldn’t mind staying here either.

The kids...he kept calling them _his_ kids, and he sighed a little, brushing back his spiky hair. They kinda _were_ at this point, but he also knew too that their mountain family might come looking for them. So...Sindle might not be the best place to stay, no matter how much he might like it. He shook his head free of those somber thoughts, and gathered up his bow, sword, quiver, and pack, swinging them up as he headed outside.

Wanda and Pietro were waiting for him, both looking nervous, but excited, and Sam grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder. 

“Took you long enough, Hawkeye; c’mon, let me show you to your bird.” The trip up to the Paperwing platform wasn’t too long, though it spiraled up into the air precariously. The stairs were mostly enclosed with slats, heavy beams of oak supporting both stair and platform, all harvested from Sindle’s thriving little lumber-forest, but it opened up completely when they got to the top, with only a thin railing to protect against falls. Most of the Paperwings were not kept up here; this was simply the launching point for longer-distance flights. Most of the patrol flights left via the lower platforms and the ground.

And since their flight was fairly far away still, they would need the extra height to help with Clint’s relearned magic. Sam pulled off the tarp, and Clint almost purred when he saw the gorgeous large Wing set in front of them, its painted eye and hawk-beak looking jaunty and spirited...and it was a lovely shade of blue-purple, lined with gold.

“She’s beautiful, Sam, thank you.”

“My pleasure. Kids, this is Artemis, she’s the strongest Wing we have in our little fleet. She’s a special sort of wing in that Clint can sit up front and pilot while you two sit up behind him, with room for your bags.” 

“It’s awfully thin...we’re going to freeze up there…” Pietro looked doubtful and worried, Wanda just as worried with him. 

“And it’s so open! The wind will tear us out of the wing without even blinking!” Both Clint and Sam shared a wicked grin, and Clint hopped into the Wing without preamble, a stream of whistled Charter marks singing through the chill air. Sam eased the kids back as first the Wing shivered, then leapt into the air, soaring off like a kite. Clint could just about make out the awe and wonder on their faces as he glanced back, and he grinned as he let out another whistle of marks.

Artemis responded like a _dream_ , eager to please and excited as they swooped through the sky, doing the loop-de-loops, dives, and cloud-dancing that he’d been so good at (and so in trouble for)...he patted her side, grinning, and a familiar whistle came from the nose of the Wing, bright and happy. Very few people knew that most Paperwings could whistle back a little bit, the magic that made them semi-sentient also making them for the most part happy, joyful creatures. Finally, he drew her back down to the platform, landing neatly, and getting out, he knelt and pressed a kiss to that golden beak in thanks, earning himself another whistle. 

“See, kiddos? She’s just fine. And there’s a warming/cooling spell that activates as soon as you take flight, so temperature isn’t a problem. It’s a little scary at first, I know, and I won’t be doing all those stunts with you two in the seat, but I promise, this beautiful bird will get us to the Clayr’s Glacier without a problem.” 

“That was amazing, Clint...I...feel a lot less scared now…” Wanda’s shy smile made him beam, and Pietro grinned a little. 

“That was pretty awesome...okay, we’ll give it a shot. Shall we?”

“Let’s. Sam, thank you again...and thank you for letting me give this lovely lady a dance.”

“Hey man, I of all people know that you missed it; if you decide to leave the Clayr for good, you ought to join the Corps; Carol and Rhodey are the best pilots in the kingdom, and I’m pretty sure they’d welcome an experienced travel-pilot.” Clint grinned, helping the kids in, then settling the packs, and turned back to him. 

“...That is very tempting...but first things first, gotta report back. Keep your nose clean, Wilson.” Sam snorted and they hugged tight, but as Clint pulled away, Sam caught his forearms, voice soft and serious as the kids chattered happily. 

“Hey...if you See something go down, can you get word to us? The King’s been gone a few days and he’s due to go to the Glacier too, but...well, the Senate doesn’t always share the updates with the outlier cities. I can get word to Carol in Nestowe and get messenger-owls and hawks to the villages, but…”

“I will. I promise I will. I...honestly don’t know what’s going to happen, but if there’s any shady shit, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll sent a Charter-message; that should get here within an hour.” Sam relaxed, and Clint smiled, patting his arm. “Hang in there, Sam, we’ll figure this out.”

“Fly high, brother.”

“Same for you.” They parted with another hug, and Clint climbed back into the Wing, chuckling as Wanda and Pietro both huddled up to him, leeching his warmth. “Alright, kiddos, ready?”

“Ready.”

“Ready…”

“Alright. Three, two, one…” He wet his lips and let out a shrill, sharp whistle, the mark glowing on the mirror and Artemis, already primed and ready to fly, leapt back into the skies again, the steady stream of marks he whistled guiding her high up into the clouds as they got to cruising height. Here, the air was crisp and clear, ruffling their hair, but the warming spell kept all three of them toasty and comfortable, and Clint relaxed, shifting the sword at his side over a bit and drinking some water. 

The kids were spellstruck, looking at the world under them in wonder and awe, and Clint smiled as he patted the Wing again, feeling her amusement and joy at their happiness. That was the best part of flying; seeing the world in all its glory, from high above. He had missed this so much...Clint’s whistle was softer now, simpler, and they passed the next two hours in a gradual descent towards the Glacier. 

The mountains were old and snow-covered, but the Clayr landing pad was slowly coming into view. Charter lights ringed it at night when they expected late landings, but otherwise, it was just a huge span of granite, smoothed by wind and the hand of man. Sand, both to make it more noticable and to provide a more stable surface when ice came down, covered the whole of the landing ledge, and he made an adjustment here, a slight push there, and though another hour passed, they were nearly there.

Finally, he could let loose the landing whistle, and they settled as softly on the sands as a thistledown on the ground, the Wing letting out a faint sigh as the magic eased. Here, they were protected from most of the wind and a healthy portion of the snow, and Clint got out first, then helped the kids out. No one was out here, but that was to be expected; it was a long set of stairs up here, and most of the flight crew kept quarters up in the hanger, not down in the mountain proper like the rest to /avoid/ that walk. 

But the door opened, to his surprise...and to his annoyance, wrapped in a magnificent white fur cloak, Emma appeared, the headdress of the Voice resting on her perfectly curled blonde hair. He sighed, fished out their packs, and led the kids over, deliberately keeping his posture relaxed and comfortable. She raised her head a little, blue eyes narrowing, golden skin fair glowing in the early morning light...and Clint gave her his trademark shit-eating grin.

“Hey there, Em, how’s it hangin’?”

“...You’re a pain in the ass, Barton, like always. Inside; we’ve much to discuss and not a lot of time to do so.” She pointed, and Clint sighed, leading the kids to the stairs, while Emma took up the rear. He knew the way, of course; he’d used to run it all the time with his cousins as a kid, but he could feel Wanda’s terror at the huge flight of stairs, and Pietro’s thinly disguised anxiety. To alleviate that (and piss Emma off), he started talking about the Glacier, about this stair, and all the things he used to do as a kid. 

It took most of the journey, but finally, he could sense those feelings ease a little bit, though Emma’s disgust was clear, and when they came down to the main floor at long last, the rest of the Watch was there to meet them. At the fore was a familiar face, and Clint couldn’t help wrapping Peggy up in a hug, laughing as she hugged him back. 

“Clint, my darling, how are you? It’s been so long…”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Peggy, I’m so sorry...but I’m here now.” They separated reluctantly, still holding one another’s hands, and she cupped his cheek, eyes sad and soft. 

“You are, but for reasons that I wish with all my heart were different. Are these the children?”

“They are, the ones I found in the woods. Wanda, Pietro, this is Margaret, my aunt, and this is Pepper, Barbara, and Gwen...and of course, Emma behind us.” 

“Gwendolyn, take the children to the Trader’s Hall for food and rest.” Emma’s voice cut over Clint’s imperiously, and Gwen gave him an apologetic smile, gently taking the kids. Wanda looked afraid again, and Clint just gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.

“It’ll be okay, Gwen’s the best, kids. I’ll see you both later.” As they vanished down yet another flight of stairs, much to Pietro’s annoyed sigh, he turned back to Emma, and let the mask drop, his anger finally on the surface. “...You know, hating me is all fine and good, but those kids are innocents, Em.”

“They’re Free Magic users.”

“Not out of choice. Their clan uses it, and they grew up learning. They’re both Charter blessed now, and learning that instead. Have a heart...oh wait, I forgot, yours is frozen.” She snarled, sharp marks forming on her lips, and Peggy clapped her hands sharply, the sound oddly familiar as she commanded them both to stop without a word. Emma looked stunned, and Clint shook his head, feeling dizzy. 

“Enough, both of you. This feud has only worsened with the years, and both of you are old enough to know better. Emma, there is much to be done in the next few days; we _must_ find those lost, and Clint, we have need of more than just your Sight. To my chambers, both of you. This is a matter we must all discuss, but in private.” Obedient, Clint and Emma followed her, both shamefaced at having been told off like children, with Pepper and Bobbi bringing up the rear. 

Clint managed to share a glance with Bobbi; her sad smile told him all he needed about _their_ relationship, and he could only imagine it was the same with Laura. Pepper looked as serene and friendly as always, and he felt a little better knowing that she was there. They made their way up to Peggy’s private rooms, and got settled on the comfortable couches, Clint alone in an armchair, and Peggy in her favorite rocking chair, eyes stern and full of emotion.

“Now then...no sniping, no anger; it is not tolerated within my home. Emma, please tell us what you’ve Seen, and what we must do.” She heaved a sigh, and Clint watched as the mask she habitually wore slipped a little, leaving a tired, worn Voice in its wake. 

“...it has been...a terrible week for the King and his family, in particular Prince Loki. The Prince’s youngest child, Hela, was murdered by a necromancer and her death used to split the Heather Stone. The King and his brother and their guards rode out to the Stone and there met the Abhorsen and Abhorsen-in-Waiting; they healed the Stone, and we sent the Paperwings to bring them here, to see what we have Seen in this last week. But…” Now, her voice choked, and it was Bobbi who took up the thread.

“They were attacked by a massive cloud of Gore Crows on the flight here; there’s wreckage from the Great Forest to the base of the mountains. We found the Prince yesterday morning outside the Trader’s Hall; he’d walked through the snow all night with only a few spells and no few injuries. We’ve no word on the King, the Abhorsen or her sister, or the two men that were flying with them...and nothing on our flight crew.” That hit her hard, and Clint had to bite the urge to comfort her; Bobbi was the leader of the Paperwing flight now, she needed understanding and sympathy. Now, Pepper gave him a faint, sad smile and continued the conversation.

“So we need you, Clint, as our best pilot and tracker, to find the necromancer who brought down the King and others; I...know that things have been bad between you and us; I won’t debate the reasons for that here, nor will the rest of us. But...if you’ll do this, we will ensure that you are rewarded handsomely for your help.” Pepper would be able to make that promise; she was the best accountant that the Clayr had, and the ledger in her hands...well, Clint didn’t doubt that he would be able to request anything he wanted. 

The Clayr could, conceivably, be considered more wealthy than the king, though their wealth was certainly far more in knowledge and relics in the Great Library, rather than the more simple matters of gold and silver. But they did have a great store of money to draw from when the times needed it, and Clint sat back, pondering both the information, and the request. It...wasn’t quite true that he was the best pilot and tracker; those accomplishments were for others in the kingdom. But…he had something far more different, and better suited, than a Clayr’s Sight. 

He could see only dimly into the future, or into the present in another location; he’d only had one True Sight in his whole life, and even then, he was hardly a requested member of the Watch. But he did have something called Hunter’s Sight. It was semi-rare, and it wasn’t Clayr exclusive; it oftentimes manifested in the royal lines, the Abhorsen lines, and in the best hunters and warriors in the land...but his, aided by his natural Sight, was what made him certainly the best damn archer in the Kingdom. 

And that would stand him in good stead now, as would his other skills. And more than that, it was the right thing to do; he’d met the King once before, and Thor was a friendly, good king with a warm heart, while the Prince had been quieter, but no less kind. And of course, Tasha was his best friend, Darcy too. He’d move heaven and earth to help them. And...a rogue necromancer of that strength? The monster needed to be brought down. He nodded, eyes determined, and leaned forward.

“I’ll do it. But...I need to talk to the Prince, to get the whole picture of the attack; if I’m going up there, I want to make sure the necromancer that brought them down can’t do the same to me.” All four women nodded, Peggy and Bobbi looking relieved, Pepper just as determined, and Emma...He paused, and let out a soft sigh. “And Emma, for what it’s worth...I am sorry for being such a colossal ass for so long. I know that...an apology doesn’t make it right.” Her eyes softened, just a little, and she gave a soft, weary smile.

“...apology accepted. And in turn, I apologize for being the frosty bitch I’ve been; it hasn’t helped things in the slightest.”

“Eh, I kinda bring out the worst in people, so it’s alright, apology accepted.” They shook on it, and Clint gave her a small smile back, gratified when she returned the gesture. Peggy just looked happy things were a little more back to normal, and with her nod of permission, Clint stood back up. 

“Alright then...shall we get started? Tell me what you’ve Seen...”

* * *

Thor woke to the sound of three voices bickering softly, more out of play than any actual argument, and he sat up with a groan, stretching stiff, aching bones from sleeping too long on the cold ground. The voices hadn’t stilled, but as he opened gluey eyes and shoved back his hair, he found that Tony was crouched next to him, offering a steaming hot cup of coffee and a bit of roasted fish wrapped in hot bread. The smell hit him like a bull, and he sat up fully, stomach growling now.

“Gods of my fathers, that smells wonderful…”

“For instant coffee, journey bread, and fish, it’s not too bad. Eat up, Tasha’s finally awake and we’re due to be headed out shortly; Mogget’s friends are nearly here.” Thor took it gladly, and made quick work of his breakfast before he stood up and made his way over to where Natasha was currently doing some careful, slightly pained stretches while Mogget paced in front of her, green eyes following her movements carefully.

“Good, good...how are you feeling?”

“Still tired, but that’s the healing spells; you have all my love, Mogget.”

“And a belly full of fish, thanks to young Stark. As for the love...well, dearest, you’ve had mine ever since you caught a string of fish, just for me as a little one.” The cat-creature chuckled, looking fond, and Natasha gave him a gentle scratch and a smile, slowly, carefully standing up and limping around now, warming and reusing her atrophied muscles and tendons. Mogget followed her, talking softly as she wobbled, and Thor packed the bags for them while Tony took care of the fire.

“Thanks, Highness…”

“Please, just Thor. I should think at this point that we’re beyond titles, my friend. Did you rest?”

“Pretty well, we just wanted you to sleep because we figured you hadn’t since Belisaere. I know Loki mentioned that you’d been pretty much in the thick of things for a week now.”

“He was right. So, the Mogget’s friends are close?”

“A trader caravan he’s traveled with many times; apparently they’re all fond of him, and he of them, so he went out the night we crashed and asked them to double time it with their best horses to come rescue us.”

“They will be handsomely paid for their trouble; this forest is a beautiful one, and easier than most, but it’s still a hard place for horses to travel. I am so grateful…”

“It is a debt I consider paid already, King; thank you both for taking the packs.” Mogget padded over, larger now so that Natasha could walk easier, and purred as she scritched the mane around his neck in thanks. 

“It’s the least we can do, and Tasha doesn’t need to deal with it. Would you like us to meet them part of the way?”

“It may be wise, at least to get out of the gully, but they are not far off; I spotted their message hawk barely an hour ago.” Thor smiled, picking up most of the packs, and Tony gathered up his, while Mogget guided Tasha up and over the ridge. The men followed, Thor taking up the rear with his sword partly drawn, and after only a little bit of walking, they heard the faint voices...familiar voices. Thor couldn’t help it, he jogged past them and up onto the next rise, and gave a yell of joy that was echoed by three men and a woman, and he whirled back with a huge, fierce grin on his face. 

“My guards, they came to us! Hogun, Fandral, Volstagg, Sif!” He ran down the slope and met all four of them in a huge hug, laughter and tears shared all around as they reunited. Thor eased off, brushing the tears away, as Volstagg clapped his shoulder and Hogun gave him a worn, happy smile, and Sif, being Sif, made her way to Tony and Tasha, Thor following close behind to help. 

“Forgive me, I…”

“Big guy, trust us, we’re feeling the same way. I’m just so glad we’ve got the guard with us. Lady Sif, I’m glad you’re alright, and the rest too.” Sif gave him a warm smile, and gave Tony a clap on the shoulder too, squeezing gently.

“We’re just happy you three survived; the first bits of wreckage we found were...horrific.” She shuddered, looking pale against her gray fur coat, and Tony nodded, looking grim himself. 

“It was awful...We still don’t know who survived.”

“Has anyone seen my sister?” Tasha’s voice was ragged with pain, with worry, and it was Fandral, oddly gentle for his normally flippant demeanor, shook his head with sorrow. 

“We have not, Abhorsen...but we also have not found her body. We’ve sent word to the Sindle flight corps; they’re scouting the wreckage sites now, and the traders are heading straight to the Glacier.” A heavily accented voice piped up from the traders waiting patiently, and the tall, handsome man with spiky brown hair smiled as they turned. 

“I am Remy, known as Gambit, my king. We go to the Glacier, and double-time; the caravan will join us later. Come friends; we’ve horses for you at the edge of the forest, and all of our horses are the steppe mustangs, hardy and strong and endurin’. Shall we go?” All eyes turned to Thor, and the King nodded, shooting the man a thankful smile. 

“Please, Sir Gambit, and thank you. Whatever you and yours desire, I will do my best to provide in full.” 

“Thank you, but that is not what we’re doin’ this for. We’re doin’ this for the Mogget and for the Kingdom.” He chuckled as Mogget simply knelt so that Tasha could ride on him, and Thor smiled a little. 

“Still, all my thanks. Let us go; we’ve a long way to travel before we are home.”

* * *

The gentle knock on the door caught his attention from the book he’d been staring into for the last hour, and Loki winced, sitting up properly and eased out of the chair, all his bruises and cuts still hurting as he walked carefully over to the door. He ached, all over, and the man at the door looked rather sympathetic...but still, professional, dressed neatly in a gray tunic, canvas trousers, and a leather jerkin.

“Prince Loki? Forgive the intrusion, but I’m here to ask a few questions about the attack. My name is Clint Barton, and I am a representative of the Clayr.” That made him blink, but his tunic was embroidered with the Clayr star, and his jerkin had it emblazoned across the back, and his coloring...he certainly fit the picture of a Clayr, albeit a male one. And that, he’d never met...but, he let the man in, welcoming him with a little more grace than he felt, and Clint smiled, holding up a covered plate. 

“Of course...what is this?”

“A sympathy gift from me; I...don’t know your pain as well as others might, but I can certainly offer a bit of food to help you through it. Please, may I sit? I’ll give you all the information we have gathered and Seen, while you eat, if you do not mind telling me what you know?”

“...well, I had not expected that, I must say...so yes, I am happy to tell you, and grateful for the food. Please, tell me all you can...I...it will be hard, but I _must_ know.” Loki felt the pain clench his heart again, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the food that was before him. And wonder of wonders, the chef had seen to it that it was a simple, comfortable fare, one that wouldn’t make him feel ill. A golden heap of pasta and melted cheese, liberally sprinkled with a bit of pepper and cracker, as well as a light salad with fresh greens, veggies, and a bit of cheese. 

Loki relaxed and Clint smiled as the Prince took a bite, then another, slowly inhaling the delicious meal as the Clayr began to talk. 

“So, to assuage your greatest worry right now; we’ve Seen the King, Abhorsen, and Wallmaker, they are alive and well, and on their way here with one of the traveling trader groups.” Loki slumped with relief at that, unashamed of the few tears that fell, and Clint offered a handkerchief in gentle understanding. Loki cleaned up his face, taking a deep breath, and letting it out, feeling all the fear vanish with it. He was still worried, still nervous…

“How long till they arrive?”

“A couple days, but not more than that; we’re sending out riders to meet them and help them in. Now, for the rest…There is something in the Kingdom that we’re trying to pinpoint, but we’re having a very hard time of it. It’s cloaking itself; even the necromancer who sent the crows to attack all of you has gone to ground, and we can’t find him. Now, one answer is that he’s hiding Death; our Sight doesn’t go that far, and we can’t see where his body might be. ”

“That would make sense; Death tends to obliterate everything to the senses except to the Abhorsen. I do know that the necromancer that attacked us is not the same as the one who killed my child, however. Dr. Banner took care of that particular monster. Have you found the locations of the others that were riding with us?” The man looked sorrowed now, and Loki winced; they lost a great deal of Clayr to that attack.

“We...found three of the Clayr that survived, and are being rescued right now, but as to the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and the doctor...nothing yet. We are still searching, because we must, and I’ll be going out to track down the necromancer myself. My fellow Clayr would like you to stay here, to wait for the King, Abhorsen, and Wallmaker to return, and they will fill you in on all they have Seen, for they couldn’t give me the full message, only what I’m meant to know.”

“Thank you...truly. You...have alleviated my despair a great deal, and knowing that you are to now hunt for the necromancer, that puts my mind at ease even more. I worry, though, that it may not be as simple as tracking him. There is something I do not like about this, aside from the obvious…” Barton looked pensive, then sighed softly.

“In all honestly, nor do I. Two necromancers in the span of a week, one of which murdered the princess and broke one of the Stones, and the other summoning a horde of Gore crows the likes of which our Clayr had only read about in the histories? Something is very wrong, and I won’t risk anything, I promise you.” Loki gave him a weary, soft smile, and reached over to grasp his hand.

“I believe you. And...thank you again. If...you ever wish to find a place outside the Glacier to call your own, you would be welcome with the Royal Guard.” He raised an eyebrow at that, and Loki matched him, giving him a wry smile. “It didn’t escape my notice that while those are certainly your clothes, they’re a bit tight across the chest and shoulders, and hardly worn at all...and not once have I seen you before this day, and I’ve met with many of the Clayr in the last day and a half.”

“...Well done. No, I’m the black sheep of the flock...but they needed me, so I came at the call. But...I will keep your offer in mind; I’ve already got one from Sindle too.” Loki chuckled at that, and eased back, letting the man stand. 

“Fair enough. Go with grace, and with our hopes, and may your arrow find its target.” Barton grinned, more than a little feral, and gave a jaunty salute as he turned to leave.

“It always does, Highness. Always.”

* * *

“Captain!” Phil turned in his saddle, eyes squinting against the snowglare and the setting sun, and around him, his fellow Rangers all did the same, though May kept a weather eye on the landscape around them. They were a scant few miles from the Wall; close enough to see it now from Cloven Crest, and the young guard riding up to them was clearly tired. He was dressed in the Royal Guard colors, but muted; he was a messenger then, sent most likely from Nestowe since it was growing too cold for the messenger hawks. He pulled up close, gently settling his mare, and Coulson reached out to steady the lad, glad it was one he knew well.

“Miles, what brought you so far south? What’s going on?”

“It’s the King and Abhorsen...they were attacked after taking off with the Clayr Paperwings. They’re okay; Colonel Danvers got the news about two hours ago and sent me off to notify the Wall. But...well…” Now, Miles looked around, nervous and clearly afraid to give the rest of the message, and Phil made an executive decision. 

“Let’s get back to the Wall, and you can tell General Fury and I the message in safety. If they were attacked...we’re sitting ducks. Think your mare can manage another sprint?”

“She’s a hunter, sir, she can handle anything. And she doesn’t like this any better than I do. Lead the way, sir.” 

“Alright. You’re in the middle; Rangers, defensive positions around Miles, his message is paramount.” Maria, May, and Daisy all formed up, May leading, and Phil took the rearguard, unsheathing his sword but leaving his shield on his back for protection, his skin already crawling as the sun sank further below the horizon.  _ Something’s out there…something knows that Miles came all this way. _ They all knew it; May spurred her horse with a sharp yell and they took off, hooves pounding over frozen earth. 

An eldritch scream sounded from the woods just behind them, and Phil grit his teeth, the Charter magic rising on his lips.  _ The Dead...there’s always been necromancy, but this level is something new...we need to make the Wall perimeter. As soon as we cross the hallowed ground, we’ll be a little more safe...just a little. _ With that goal in mind, he summoned a Charter-light, one keyed to the specific colors of the Rangers, glowing green in the darkness, so that none of them were shot full of arrows on their flight in. 

And what a flight it was; he could see Daisy murmuring her own spells, weaving them into the horses’ stamina and endurance, pushing them just a little more. Maria was weaving a shield-spell, her anger feeding her determination...and then there was May. Melinda May was the best combat fighter and spell-caster the Rangers had ever seen, and despite her quiet, solemn demeanor, she had a wicked sense of humor. But now...Phil could sense her fear, her worry, and that made him all the more nervous. 

More screams sounded from the dark woods and fields, and he snapped out fire spells on either side...and felt his heart drop like a stone. Dead flocked from the woods, most of them barely animated, the corpses were so desiccated and decomposed, but there were some new bodies in there, old men dressed like Ancelstierran natives...and to his horror, Phil recognized one from just a few days prior, when they’d arrived at the Wall. 

_ God help us, all those officials...there’ll be blood from the capital to pay, too. And so many Dead...this monster must have been pulling them from Death for weeks now.  _ That wasn’t unheard of; it didn’t take a Charter Stone’s demise to make a gateway into Death, it just made it much easier to open. All this mage would have had to do was kill a few humans, or even deer or elk, and opened a door to Death enough to draw out the Hands and other spirits. Just a few deaths at a time would build an army slowly, and safely...and Phil felt his gorge rise at the thought.

“PHIL!” May’s cry brought his attention back, and he swore heavily.  _ Dammit, they’re trying to cut us off! _ He swiftly wove his dagger spell, and spat the words as fiery daggers of light were flung from his hands, cutting down the Dead in their way. The husks of the bodies bounced off their legs and horses, and his horse screamed as she trampled one poor hapless corpse. But they were free of the pincer, and finally,  _ finally _ they were in range of the Wall’s arrows...and with a roar, the archers let loose. 

Phil grinned fiercely as the gates appeared, and they darted through, letting the iron portcullis come crashing down and the blessed oak gates close, barred now with more iron and oak. The Wall had been built up a significant amount by the Wallmaker family over the last fifty-odd years, and now rose another ten feet higher, with a proper ledge around the top for archers, and Phil was able to finally drag himself off his horse, gently petting and soothing her as the rest of his team did the same. 

Around them, the outpost was buzzing with activity, Charter mages and fighters ensuring that the Dead wouldn’t break through...and from the knot of activity at the base of the stairs, General Fury burst forth. 

“Coulson! Status report!” 

“Things are bad, sir; very bad. But we need to take this inside; Corporal Morales here has important news that we need to hear...and that our troops don’t, just yet.” Fury’s eye softened, just a little, and he nodded, opening the door to his private office. 

“I trust your judgement. Lieutenants, all three of you are on rest after you take care of the horses, unless you want to join us?”

“I do, sir; Hill, Johnson?”

“I think we’ll take care of the horses, May, I’m pretty worn…”

“I am too. General, is there anything you want us to keep an eye out for?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure there will be as soon as I hear this young man out. Rest; I think we’ll all need it.” Both women nodded sharply, and Daisy took two horses, Maria the other three, and Phil held the door open for Fury, May, and Miles, glancing behind him. He was relieved to see the soldiers relaxing, fewer arrows, fewer spells...and no screaming from broken vocal cords. That sound  _ still _ made his heart chill…

“Phil, get in here.”

“Sir.” He closed the door, leaving it unlocked but shut tightly, and melted in the warmth as Fury handed him a fresh cup of coffee. May was already halfway done, and Miles was polishing off his, clearly tired. “Alright, Miles...what’s going on?” The boy sighed, but sat up straighter, his dark eyes worried, knuckles pale under his dusky skin.

“To start with, the King, Abhorsen, Prince, Abhorsen-in-Waiting...all of them were attacked on the flight to the Glacier. Initial reports from the Glacier reveal that the first three, and the Wallmaker, have survived the attack; the Abhorsen-in-Waiting is currently whereabouts unknown, but the Abhorsen is insistent that she’s alive. It was definitely Gore Crows, probably as strong as or stronger as the Dead outside the Wall right now. But…”

“...But?”

“Right before I left, a message-hawk came in from Sindle, of an Ancelstierran man who was found at the edge of town, battered and clearly left for dead. Captain Wilson was suspicious because he claimed he was with a carriage from the Wall of other officials, but none had survived.”

“...Did he give a name?” Fury’s voice was gentle and low, but his eye was full of rage, and Phil felt a growing dread.

“Pierce. It was Commander Pierce that came into Sindle.”

* * *

 

Sam studied the man before him quietly, keeping his body language open and relaxed, and marveled at how he was...exceptionally friendly and comfortable, without revealing any real information about himself. He was a perfect politician, that much was clear, and Sam might have even felt friendly towards him...if it weren’t for the suspicious circumstances in which he’d come to Sindle. His Guard was pretty relaxed around the affable old man, even Brunhilde, and yet…

_ He’s...different, and not in the way the Southerners always are. He’s too relaxed with the Charter magic, too...curious about Free Magic. I’ve never met an Ancelstierran quite like him...and I don’t think I want to meet any others like him. _ Thankfully, he was sequestered in the guest quarters, and Sam sipped his ale, fingers going to his belt pouch...and there, he felt a familiar soapstone snout. He blinked, glancing down; the Dog was peeking out, looking oddly jovial for his sour mood. 

“I wonder…” He murmured quietly to himself, rubbing those pointy ears, and glanced back to find Pierce watching him, those gray-blue eyes looking almost...hungry.

“Something the matter, Captain?”

“Not in the slightest, sir, just musing to myself. Ladies, gents, I think it’s time we call it a night; we’ve got an early morning tomorrow with drills.” There was a chorus of grumbling, but good-natured; the guards dispersed, one leading Pierce to his quarters, and Sam made his way to his own rooms, fingers still running over the Dog’s ears. It was a foolish, silly thought, but...given the news Clint had sent him earlier this afternoon, about all that had happened to the King and Abhorsen...well, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra help.

He shut his door tight, locking it, and pulled the figure out, setting her on the table, and cleared away the chair, studying her quietly, wondering what to do. This...definitely wasn't in any sort of Charter primer, that's for certain. 

“...Well, I’m not sure where to start, but have a little patience with me, alright?” No answer, of course, but Sam still felt better for asking; after all, she was definitely a being far greater in magic and strength than he. He took a deep breath, remembering the basic Charter marks for a building a simple sending...and just like Lirael so many decades before, the marks started to flow on their own. Sam’s lips started to burn as they poured from him, focusing around the soapstone and a brilliant, too-bright spot of light before him.

Heat and light and endless Charter magic filled his whole being, and he dropped like a rock to the floor without realizing it, dazed and exhausted as the magic finally finished, coalescing and forming something new, something ancient...and Sam passed out, too tired to even see his creation.

“Human...Huuuuman…” A hot, wet tongue, and a decidedly doggish voice made him come to with a start, and Sam’s eyes opened to see a lanky, black and tan mongrel grinning down at him...and he let out a faint, tired laugh. She was every bit the Dog from Lirael’s memoirs, and sitting on her haunches as he sat up, he was astonished at how perfect she really was...and the latent power within her.  _ Now, we’ve got one of the Shiners back. Now, we’ve got a chance. _

“Welcome back to the world, Kibeth. We’ve missed you.”

* * *

_Gone, forgotten, hated...you will be a wraith for me, you will live for **m** **e**...and you will not remember any but **me**!_

_The soldier twisted and cried against the bindings that held him, blue eyes blind with pain and agony as his broken, ruined arm was cut away at the shoulder. He blacked out time and time again, coming to long enough to scream before falling into darkness once more. Too many times, he died on the table, blood and vomit heaving out of his stomach, his lungs, tears of blood staining his cheeks...and too many times, he was reanimated, his body bolstered with Free Magic and spells, his mind warped and twisted…_

_ But through it all, he could only think of one person, one lost, his best friend, his only friend...and it was that name he always screamed, when they pulled out the scalpels once more. _

**_STEVE!_ **

He came awake with a start, blue eyes darting between the horses and the carriage sides, and the soldier slowly calmed, his mask huffing out a tired breath as he slumped back against the seat. Behind him, inside the carriage itself, were the two women, probably still asleep, judging from the spells his master had cast on them. The master himself had taken the only remaining horse and gone back east to Sindle, while the soldier headed west towards the stronghold. He didn’t like that...didn’t like kidnapping. Murdering corrupt officials was one thing; that was cleansing...mere girls was a whole other issue.

Behind him, the forest loomed, and he didn’t miss the flash of white darting back under the trees, too bright to be an animal, too dangerous to be a human...what it was, the soldier did not know. But frankly, he didn’t care; what it was didn’t matter, only that he could find a way to kill it. His blade beside him was testament to that fact, and he patted it with a touch of affection. It was stupid, perhaps, but it was one of the few things that brought comfort to him. 

The memories...they weren’t a comfort. What there _were_ of them, weren’t anyway, and the soldier sighed a little behind his mask, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d been feeling...different these last few weeks, his normally calm, dispassionate facade cracking and breaking as first the master murdered those officials...then kidnapped the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. And now...now, he was to take those two girls _there_ , and keep them until his master returned...The binding spell across his chest gave a pulse, and he gasped, pain flooding him.

Sensing something, the horses snorted, tossed their heads...and the soldier bit back a swear as suddenly, a white cat suddenly appeared, sitting up on the kneerest as though it belonged there. He fought the urge to rein in the horses; it wouldn’t do him any good to stop, and his master would not take kindly to this interruption. 

“Well now, you must be his puppet then. Quite a strange place to be driving a carriage, into the wilds, don’t you think?” The cat’s voice was almost a growl, green eyes narrowed and angry, and the soldier felt something like fear really touch his heart now. “And I know what you carry; I want the Abhorsen back.”

“...Then try and take her, and die.” Somehow, despite the size of the beast, the soldier was struggling to bring his anger back to the fore, and even to his ears, the threat sounded weak and pathetic. The cat-creature snorted, then gave an ugly, harsh laugh...one that morphed as the being became taller than a man, white hot and seething with Free Magic, raw and untamed.

**“Do not test me, little soldier, for I will break you. I am older than this land, older than this world, and I will outlive it, and all who reside here. But I WILL have the Abhorsen, and the girl inside; you will give her to me, or you will die. And you will never see the one you seek again.”** Horror filled him, not only at the monster’s words, but at its form too; he knew exactly what this was. This was the creature that had allied with the mortals of the Old Kingdom, the one creature his master had warned was stronger than any Dead, any mortal…

It was the Eight Shiner. Yrael.

“...I cannot give them to you. I _cannot_. I am bound…” Those fiery pits for eyes narrowed, studying him, looking, if somehow possible, deeper than even the soldier could have realized…

**“...So you are. You are bound by dark, old magic...I know it, I could even break it...but I dare not. He would know…and he is something those I care for cannot fight, not yet.”** He bowed his head; it was a truth he’d known, and even celebrated...but in the face of this creature...well. **“You have fought it before, and lost, and so you embraced it. I do not fault you, though you are not forgiven.”**

“I do not deserve it. But...what would you have me do, Shiner? I cannot disobey…” The beast sighed, then there went a pop of light, bright enough that the soldier could not see...and the cat had returned, looking pensive and quiet. 

“You cannot. And I am limited in my power. I am going to leave a tracking spell on one of the horses; that should be small enough that he will not notice. It will take us time to come back...what are his plans?”

“...I do not know. Truly, I do not. They are to be held, and cared for. The rest...I do not know.”

“...I believe you. You have no reason nor need to lie. How long do we have?”

“Not long. Not long at all. Perhaps a week, maybe more. My master...does not wait for much.”

“Where did he go?”

“Sindle, last I knew...but he was three days journey away.”

“That is where I’ve sent the rest of my party. They will carry on well enough without me.” The man paused, confused, and the cat fluffed up his fur and settled in a loaf next to him. “What?”

“...you’re staying with me?”

“Yes. Don’t look too much into it; Darcy is far more important to me than anyone else.”

“...that I can understand. Thank you, Shiner.” 

“...you are welcome. I will not appear around your master, but I will be there.” 

“I would not ask for anything more; to have any help is enough for me.”


End file.
